Keeping the Faith

Sharing time with my daughter in this program has been a heavy... gift.

She's spontaneous, bright, a free-spirit, independent.
She also fights the rules, is sneaky, unfocused and stubborn beyond belief.

However, by spending time with her in a circle of little girls of similar ages I can cross compare and honestly... appreciate her good qualities and see her other qualities as typical of the age, and not simply because she wants to be hurt my feelings, my pride or break my rules.

By 'forcing' myself to spend a good amount of one on one time and giving her undivided attention (I'm trying to maintain the original intention of the program and keep the meetings daughter-mom driven, and not playdate driven), her behavior has improved and her cooperation has increased.

Her turnaround has enlightened me about this fact of children: they listen to those who appreciate them for who they are. I'm not saying she's an angel (she's a Rain Angel) but I am saying that occasionally those little cries of protest or digging in of the heels... it's someone saying, hey listen to me, pay attention to me, and show me you care about me and who I am. When she doesn't have to fight for my love or attention, most of the battle goes out of her.

She then concentrates on her preferred battles of lobbying paper balls at her brother or racing with him down the street. Or brushing her teeth and hair.

Hang in there, when you have a stubborn one like mine. You just gotta hang in there and believe that inside her or him: there's a tiny baby who needs kisses and love. Forever.

Sparkle Dreams Induction Camp, Part 2

A couple of years ago the Dancing Sunshine, my hubby's former father-daughter group, had come up with a plan for a costume contest at Induction Camp. I at first thought it would be too much. I mean, camping, sleeping bags, bugs and now, costumes?? But it turned out very nice, and apparently, is now a tradition at our October Induction Camp. Shooting Star Rose has a very sensible head on her shoulders. I explained to her that if she took her NEW costume to camp, it might be ruined before "real Hallowe'en". She saw the wisdom in this and brought her old Tinkerbell costume, complete with gold shoes. Blue Butterfly arrived with her daughter's Princess Jasmine costume, which was a little loose, Blue Butterfly complained. When the drums sounded for the event's start, the moms hurriedly dressed their daughters, who were excited to have an excuse to be "beautiful". Tinkerbell's skirt turned out to be over-stretched. It hung way below Shooting Star Rose's panty line. With her tears bubbling at the brim, Shooting Star Rose stood very still as Rainbow Sparkle tried various versions of string, hair clips and finally, duct tape, to secure her skirt to modest levels. When Shooting Star Rose tore off toward the costume parade arena, I noted that in fixing her skirt, I had gathered her skirt up extremely high. Where the tops of her panties were securely hidden, the bottoms were exposed at every wind gust. Troubled, I turned to Blue Butterfly for comfort. Blue Butterfly was equally transfixed at the sight of her daughter's Princess top, which threatened to slip open at any given second. Our girls were giggly and wiggly and found a place in the growling circle of costumed children, dotted with over-zealous adults in wigs and make up. We commiserated a bit on our daughters' potential fashion fall outs. They paraded around and around in cheerful style. I was glad when it was over.

Later that evening, we participated in the annual ritual of naming, or official beginning of our Adventure Guides life. We announce to the waiting crowd our Guide names and are welcomed into the bosom of the Guides with a toss of ceremonial corn into the bonfire. It was the moment I had been dreading since my christening by my daughter as Rainbow Spongebob Banana Head. I've been relieved somewhat when she abbreviated my name to Rainbow Sparkle. We stepped onto the stage and were invited to announce our names. I smiled and said, "Rainbow Sparkle," (Goodbye, Rainbow Spongebob! I thought). Our Federation Captain, Running Spring, looked expectantly at Shooting Star Rose. Encouraged by my smile, my daughter stepped forward and took a deep breath:

"Sparkly Dolphin"

Sparkly Dolphin?

What happened to Shooting Star Rose, I asked her later.

She replied, "Oh that's my tribe name." Always eager for a reason, I pressed her to explain the switch. "Oh, Sparkly Dolphin? That's my stage name." Well, now I had my reason.

Weeks later, I commented to her, "Shooting Star Rose…" she corrected me and said, no, Sparkly Dolphin. Or just Sparkle Dolphin. Or just Dolphin. Because she likes Dolphins. She reads about them.

What about Shooting Star Rose? "Oh, that's my old name."

I've since let it go.

Spongebob Disappears at Fall Induction Camp Part 1

Well, Spongebob didn't exactly disappear but my whining campaign about my Rainbow Spongebob name had finally succeeded, and, perhaps, Shooting Star Rose had forgotten really all about it. So a part of me was relieved.

We arrived at Far West Resorts in Santa Paula, CA, feeling a bit tired and oddly prepared: this was our fifth year together as a family in Adventure Guides and although my husband and I still have different camping styles ("Why are you packing the stove first? Do we really need that extra…") we made peace long enough to successfully pack our car in under three hours for a two night campout. All I really cared about is that we brought our camping coffeemaker. THAT should have been packed last, but whatever.

We searched throughout the campsite of a few dozen Adventure Guides wandering about, and we finally found a stretch of dirt, shaded by trees, near a Trailblazer. That was ideal. My husband, Red Thunder, was the new Trailblazer president and so it was particularly important we camp near a TB. Actually, as it turned out, we were camping near the ONLY TB at Induction Camp this year. The Trailblazer program had kinda thinned out this past year. There were a number of "Age outs", or people who just graduate themselves out of the program. The Trailblazers are the "grown up" Adventure Guide-ers, parents whose children have outgrown the crafts and a-b-c-look-at-me-songs (well somewhat) and have grown into soccer balls, football cleats and baseball gloves, Saturday games, lengthy book reports, science experiments, and early algebra. Yet these TBs thankfully want to still spend quality time with their son or daughter. Therefore, the "kinder, gentler" version of Adventure Guides: the Trailblazers fit that need. With less meetings and commitments, the Trailblazer program still parades though campouts and movie days, and if we keep with Red Thunder's vision, more hikes and nature walks.

As the captain of a new mother-daughter tribe, I thought it was important to set up a separate camp site. I was the only member present of my tribe, and the only one staying overnight, but that was not the point. I am a woman, independent super camper, and hear me roar. I marched right up to a spot under a tree and claimed it. I pronounced it "outside my husband's jurisidiction" and marked it immediately with girly stuff: my angel flag, shoes set up in rows, and pumpkins as décor. I regretted leaving my wind chimes at home. I laid out a ground cloth, set up my tiny pop tent, and put my hands on my hips with deep satisfaction.

Red Thunder was just as determined to mark his territory. Corralling his son into working on the pop up tent he received from his dad, they wrangled with a set of poles and ropes until one of them said, "Hey this is broken". (I don't know if the tent actually arrived broken.) Our resident TB'er was also an engineer, and came sailing over with duct tape. In true testosterone fashion, the three of them heaved onto the poles and subdued them with enough tape to secure a small elephant, and tah dah, "Man Land" was born. Brown, leaning a bit, and silvered with tape, their tent was a proud sail of manhood and accomplishment. I saluted them.

Later, Blue and Pink Butterfly arrived to Camp, and Shooting Star Rose and I were very excited. After some immediate chatter and settling in, the Butterflies, Rebecca and I took a quick hike about the area. Blue Butterfly discovered some wild asparagus. Pink Butterfly, Shooting Star Rose, my son and his TB partner, and one other child had a shrieking good time playing various versions of hide and seek in the neighboring brush and wild weeds. It seemed fine and dandy until Shooting Star Rose came gleefully flying out with a sharpened stick. Okay. Game over.

"But Mom…." She started to whine.

"But nothing. I want the stick."

"No."

"Either the stick or we go home" (A useless threat but Shooting Star Rose hadn't figured that out … yet).

"…. Uh… okay"

I was the proud owner of a primitive spear.

Later, when we were making some crafts, Shooting Star Rose reached for a pile of my string.

"What do you need that for, honey?" I knew better than to think she wanted to help with my craft.

"I need it."

"What for?"

"I just need it, okay?"    She was getting frustrated.

"I don't mind giving you some, but I need some for my craft here. I can't give it all to you. You can have SOME."

"Okay, fine, give me some."

"Please."

"PLEASE."

I continued to lecture her on how my stuff is not HER stuff, and she can't just grab everything… and she plopped a kiss on my cheek.

"Okay, thanks MOM!" She smiled happily and took off with a load of string. My mind wandered back in time to her… spear. Where did I put that spear? An image came to mind. Oh. Oh, no.

"Gee," my friend and adult camping partner, Blue Butterfly, smiled at me, interrupting my train of thought. "I could see myself having that same conversation with MY daughter." She smiled at me, conspirators in parenting.

I smiled, deeply and sincerely back.

Despite all the travails of camping and work involved in the Adventure Guides, it was these moments, moments of parents of like minds and similar experiences, where we share our griefs and joys, that

makes this program so special to me. It gives me a sense of relief to know that I am not alone in my frustration, and that there are others out there, who are trying their best to be the best parent they can be. Children are really wonderful, gifts from God and being around other parents in this type of setting reminds me of that.

"Rebecca!" my son howled across the campsite. "MOM!"

Oh. Oh, no.

 

Summer Camp Part 2: We Survive

I think I've learned that the best camp food is burnt food. If it can be burnt and STILL taste good, put that on your camping grocery list. Examples: hot dogs and marshmallows. Camp classics. Not together of course, unless it's your last day and you're itching to be rid of your food. I won't judge you.             

I want to share with you one other terrific food which survives being burnt without lessening edibility: Costco brand frozen meatballs. These things were mightily handy: even burnt, the blackened edges gave the meatballs a crispy crunch, and saddled up for use as a shish-ka-bob, snuggled down in a tortilla for a lumpy taco (tasty with salsa) or rolled around our plates, freestyle, next to a salad. They're great. Add THEM to your camping list, too.

We ran out of propane Saturday morning which saddened me, because I watched to show off my handy dandy impressive "I don't drink Folger's Instant Coffee on a Campout" Coleman Coffee Maker. This thing is amazing and essential for a caffeine addict like myself. However, it relies on a working stove. True in the Adventure Guide spirit, we ladies decided not to go to the store for more propane (how silly!) and "live off the land". Our girls, Shooting Star Rose and Pink Rose went scrambling around for little sticks for kindling. My partner, Stargazer Lily, eyed our waning wood pile, and began weighing the value of a stump for my chair against wood for the fire. I lost my chair. Dang. Double dang because I had forgotten my foldable chair.

Shooting Star Rose had a grand time choosing sticks and flinging them like Amazon tribe darts at a variety of people: mostly me. Sigh. I wanted to become closer to my daughter, not be a moving target.

"Rebecca, don't throw sticks."

"I'm not."

"What was that then?"

"I don't know." In her five year old mind, reality is as bendable as a rubber band.

"I said, Stop it."

Silence.

"We need them for the fire, " I tried the smooth parent style. "Can you put them in a pile, please? A nice pile?" It seemed to work. She began changing her target from me to the woodpile. Then I blew it. "Thank you, sweetie. You're so helpful".

"NO!" She shouted. "No, I'm not!"

"Well, I thought you were. Maybe I am wrong." I didn't care anymore. Really. Who wants to argue with a five year old? Not me. "Pink Rose, " I turned to our camping companion, "Could you hand me that stick, please?"

"No, ME!" Shooting Star Rose moved toward Pink Rose, who deftly stepped to the side. Geez.

"Honey," I spoke to my darling, "You are so amazing." She stopped short. "Do you want to help Mommy clean up the tent?" In response, she flounced off toward the river. Pink Rose followed.

I had diverted disaster once again.

Summer Camp Part 1: We Arrive

Okay, our first outing as Rain Angels. Simi Valley YMCA Adventure Guides Summer Camp, one of the best camps of the year. I wanted it to be sparkly, a bonding event, and fun with my daughter. I was even planning on leaving Friday to make it a three day weekend.

My five year old sweetness had been packed for three days. My nine year old son, a seasoned camper, has packed the night before. I learned belatedly my daughter neglected to include underwear in her planning. Well, you think I would have checked her packing, do you? Well, of course not! I love to swing from vines and live off the land while camping. It's the native Hawaiian in me. But honestly, I was so excited, I forgot. I was mentally prepared for my son forgetting something: he knows it's his burden if he forgets underwear or socks. If he smells, I just turn away. I feel duly justified as the mature parent and well, we've been through enough campouts, that he won't complain about his mistakes to my face. My daughter, on the other hand, I wasn't mentally prepared: she still occasionally bed wets so to be without underwear is akin to being without food. Mid-weekend, typical Adventure Guide style, we used swimming bottoms and hand-washed some clothing in the dim hope they would dry enough in two days for a Sunday pick me up (didn't happen).

I had also picked up an Angel flag from Freecycle.org, and at the campsite, with the help of my fellow Rain Angel parent, we cobbled together a pretty flag for our site. I was determined to "camp pretty" this time around. I'd been to various camping events, and I've seen some wonderful ways to spark up the campsite. I brought a miniature rose plant, a brightly colored orange and lime tablecloth, and, of course, our angel flag. By the time I brought out the wind chimes, my Rain Angel parent partner eyes widened then chuckled, "Well, I guess, this is being so totally green… planting roses and listening to chimes!" She was a good sport about it all, but I suspect she was a more hard-core camper than I. In fact, I KNOW this. She has even camped where they had to "make a potty". Woah. Now THAT's camping.

I made the mistake of announcing to my son that he can be a little more free now, since he's been camping with me, and setting up tents and campsites with me for three years. "Yahoo!". I think he almost got whiplash as he left the campsite, half shod, so excited he forgot his shoe. He came back and, properly shoed, went yelling thought the campsite, like a wild … child. I was so stunned I couldn't finish… "… just help me with you sister…". Oh well. When it got dark, I got irritated because I had forgotten to remind him to tell me where he is going. The neat thing about the AG is that EVERYONE knows you in the campsite. The not so neat thing is because your child KNOWS everyone, he or she may forget to come back. It's a little creepy, when the paranoid parent in me raises her ugly head. Several stern lectures later, and sending our nine and ten year old children search parties for him ("Have you seen my son? Would you look for him? Tell him to come back?"), he finally relaxed enough to tell me where he is going before he leaves the campsite.

My daughter Shooting Star Rose also wasn't used to this new style: previously in campouts, she was the little tag along, the little extra. Now, unused to being needed, she had wandered into the next campsite. I quickly saw where this was going, so I gave in, and quickly set up my tiny two man tent, and threw my flowers and wind chimes around. It took nearly the entire weekend before she seemed to realize she is "with me" and sat on my lap. She spent a good amount of time at other campsites. It was almost embarrassing but I held my chin up: I wanted my new Rain Angel Parent Partner (only one of the two could make it this weekend) to see that I was calm, mature and, dang it, not embarrassed. Adventure Guides don't get embarrassed: they endure all pain.

In the Name of Spongebob

(Three days later)

"Okay, my darling, how are you?"

"Fine." My five year old daughter smiles at me, in a rare moment of bliss. Usually my little tigress alternates between adoration of me, and absolute fury at anything she perceives as interference of... whatever she is doing.

"I am your Rainbow Spot." I announce, trying to swallow acceptance. Our / my struggle over my Adventure Guide name was nearing its end, I could feel it. Each day that has passed has made it that much easier to embrace my new name.

She frowns. "No, you're not."

"Oh?" A dim flicker of hope on the horizon: has she thought of a more romantic name for me? Princess Angel? Queen Butterfly? Glowing Gem of Genius?

"You're Rainbow Spongebob."

Oh, geez. I completely give up.

Name Check

"Rebecca. What's my name?"

My five year old sweetness and light looks at me, a bit distracted. I am talking to her while she is watching Pocahontas. "Rainbow Spot."

"Are you sure?" I pressed. I couldn't help it. I'm not fully mature. I still a little sensitive about my name. A name is POWER. So far, I am a laundry stain.

"Okay, okay," she says, and I brighten up a bit. "You can be…" she thinks. Her eyes spy my t-shirt. "Spongebob."

"Spongebob", I repeat.

"Or Squidward." This isn't getting better.

"Or you know, you can be a…a… superhero…"

"Yes?"

"Spiderman or you know, you can wear glasses, and be… uh, uh, " She frowns, concentrating. She's silent for awhile.

She shrugs, at a loss for a superhero with glasses, perhaps.

Her eyes wander away from me, back to the dancing maiden on the screen.

"I don't know, Mom. You're still Mom, aren't you?" She says off-handedly.

Yes. I'm Rainbow Spot. And I'm still Mom. Ah, to heck with it.

Name Power

    It may be the spiritual, mystical Earth mother inside me, but names have always been an interest of mine. Not purely for social reasons but all for what I perceive to be the meaning, the power, and the destiny of the name holder. Many cultures regard a name as something of such significance that parents spend hours, perhaps longer, reviewing names, consulting prayer leaders or shamans (perhaps named differently in their culture). I have spent a lot of time agonizing over the natural names for my children, much longer poring through their potential Hawaiian names, prior to their earthly arrival. So naturally I looked forward to my new Adventure Guide name with my daughter.

    My husband, Red Thunder, said it was silly to change names from child to child. I had graduated AG with my son, Little Puffin, and had carried the weight of Big Puffin as my AG name. My son had named me. Tell me. If you were named Big Puffin, and you had a chance for a re-christening, what would YOU do?

    Actually, I, in the Adventure Guide spirit, believe it's important to allow the child to participate as much as possible in the tribe, including naming themselves and naming their parent. I thought it was an interesting twist: the child naming the parent. I looked on it as a transfer of power. The child gained the power over the parent. But the parent allowed this happen, so I looked at it as a balance. I am quite pleased with this philosophy.

    Previously, my capricious son had named me twice, growing bored with his name, thus compelled to rename me in conjuction. My first name was Sinking Rock. It became Sinking Stone for the benefit of alliteration. I think it had to with his perception of my enthusiasm about camping. His name at the time was Blue Spotted Wave. I thought it was a cold, leprous, wet name but shrugged, it was his name, and he was proud of it. To name yourself is to confer an independence to yourself, I believe. He then changed his name to Dark Cyclone. I think he was feeling, as he grew from five to six, the need to be more "grown up". He didn't feel like changing my name. I don't think he really remembered what he named me, always calling me MOM.

    Suddenly he remembered he had a deep affection for Dances with Penguins, a former Federation Captain. He became Little Puffin. By default, his being Little, I therefore became Big. I am grateful he wasn't Smart or Handsome Puffin (which he could very well have been). It was something I understood but endured. It appeared as he grew from eight to nine, he became sentimental, returning to a memory of his younger childhood, asking for more hugs along the way. He was again Little and no longer something dark or powerful.

"SO…"

"Yes?"

"Rebecca. What name did you pick for yourself? You know for your new tribe?"

"Shooting Star. No, Shooting Rose."

"Shooting Rose?" I thought of a pretty flower with a serious attitude problem. How perfect.

"No. I said Shooting Star."

Sigh.

"Yes, of course. That's very pretty."

"No it's not!"

"Yes, you're right. What did you want to name me?" I asked to change the subject but also because I was curious.

"Hmmm."

"Well?" I prompted.

"Hmmm. Uh, Spot."

I blinked. I look at her to see if she was laughing at me. No, she wasn't.

"Well, thank you. Um, could you… " my voice trailed off. Well, am I keeping with my aforementioned principals of allowing the child to have the power, the child be in charge? No, I wasn't. But dang it, I am not being called SPOT.

"How about adding a color?" I suggested.

"Okay. White."

"White Spot?"    I could hear my husband laughing in my mind. I don't want to go into it. "No, not white. No, not white." Okay, having giving up my principals, I threw in the entire handtowel. Or handbasket. Whatever the phrase is.

"Yellow?" She looked at me helpfully. Noooooooo. Not yellow!

"Red?" I have to give her credit, she was really trying.

"Okay, Spot. I'll take Spot. But how about Rainbow?"

"Rainbow Spot?" She asked. I couldn't lose with every single color.

She frowned.

"I don't know."

"Okay, then Spot for now. Okay? For now."

She grinned.

I don't think my daughter needs a transfer of power.

If anything, I think I can borrow some from her.

If she'll let me.

Higher Calling

For me, naming our tribe has always been an adventure in parent hope.

In the past, my son and I had tribe names akin to snakes or fire. A boys' group. Although the higher part of me says, "Oh, it's their tribe, let them name the tribe", I always cringed a bit at being a "flaming" something or some type of reptile. So I was looking forward to my daughter's new tribe naming efforts. Would we be something magical, like The Princess Moonbeams? Pretty like Blossoming Butterflies? Traditional like Maidens? Fierce like Xena, Warrior Princess?
The three girls had made a list and I encouraged them to read the list and to "mix up" the words, to come up with new variants.

In a previous post, you may recall some of their excited and enthused choices. I'll repeat them plus add a few developments:

(Anything) princesses
Ocean
Dolphins
Silverfish (after a bit of blinking, I realized this patch could be rather pretty: like a shiny lobster)
Daffodils
Ladybug Bears (a bit like a chimera, I think, head of a ladybug, body of a bear)
Ladybugs
Angels
Butterflys
Angel Butterflys (or vice versa)


Our historian, Blue Rose, had us do a craft of rainsticks out of paper towel rolls and glue. (It's interesting because she has some Native American heritage, and I think this will prove a compelling addition to our tribe.)

Thus, at the night of the craft, came the wave (ahem) of water based names:

Rain makers
Angels
Raindrops
Rain flowers

After raising hands, marking names, and voting and voting, trying to be as fair as possible, we were between Ladybug Bears and Angel Butterflies. I made the mistake of asking for one more vote, because I wanted the three little girls to like the name, and my stubborn, precocious (that's the nice word) daughter wasn't participating as much I'd like. Well, in a whirl of passion, I read the names out loud again, and Rain Angels became the new favorite. In their giggly excitement, looking back, I think I could have said Bugeyed Spotted Bears with Wings, and they would have agreed.

Relieved (it's always the parents that stress the most over this: okay, I'll be honest, it's usually ME), I realized I wasn't a burning reptile, and became quite happy. Although, the image of a wet, possibly bedraggled, angel was a bit dampening (ahem), but I thought, who knows? If you live in the clouds, you're bound to get wet. What angel couldn't shake off a bit of water?

The Village Experience

I found the greatest article, which sums up for me the myriad thoughts I'd had over the years, about my limited parenting skills, the ideas of parenting which I observe in the media, etc.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20080627/sc_livescience/whywefearparenting

Our American culture no longer appears to provide the neighborhoods teeming with children anymore. There has been a cultural shift away from the large family. Thus, we grow up, our children grow up, with limited experience with each other and with children. I think there is a growing impact of this lack of experiences. I think children are finding it harder to deal with each other and young parents are finding it more difficult to understand their offspring and raising children. It explains to me why some adults stress out more over children's behavior than other adults. It suggests that adults whose experiences include siblings, neighborhood friends, babysitting and over all interaction with children of various ages will fare better, in the long run, being parents of their own children. It makes logical sense. The only children, the children who grow up in isolated neighborhoods or who call their bike and their basketball their best friend, may one day become the adults who are most frustrated with children's behavior.

In response to this, the Adventure Guides provide a small taste of a community with lots of children and sympathetic parents. I was speaking with a Moms Club this morning and their president reminded me of that African proverb, "It takes a village to raise a child", and we commiserated together on how the "village experience" is disappearing. We're all so busy, so occupied, so complicated. The Adventure Guides provides a respite, a magical place, almost sepia-toned, where parents and children play and learn with and about each other.

AG Adds Life

I volunteered to be on the Recruitment Team for the Adventure Guides. I am sincerely passionate about this program, and I know it's in a transition stage right now. We recently had about forty or so members "age out" into Trailblazers, the "older kids" program, leaving the AG slightly bereft of supporters. Those of us who are left are completely still excited and thrilled to be in the program.

I've been in the program long enough to have seen it go from very high to very low in numbers, and that's only a normal, cyclic attrition.

One issue that appears to come up once in awhile is our local YMCA's choice for the program name: Adventure Guides, versus the original Indian Guides. The argument is that Indian Guides has more of a history, and therefore name recognition. A lack of name recognition may be at fault for our low numbers, some say. I disagree and agree.

In a previous post, I had explained my personal preference for the AG name as based on my belief that AG is more accurate. It spells out for all persons, of all cultures what this program is about. With all due respect to its Native American origins, a parent guiding their child through his or her life is not soley a Native American idea. Indeed, all cultures respect a parent who spends extra time with their child, modeling for them, showing them items of interest, and, yes, playing with them. So I disagree with returning to Indian Guides.

I compare the two camps similar to Coke and Diet Coke. Thirty years ago, no one had heard of Diet Coke. But there was a need. Now, Diet Coke outsells Coke, because society has changed in its needs, in what it perceives as important. No, you cannot bring up the New Coke example. That was a change in formula. Diet Coke was a change in the market. I can agree the AGs are currently not well known. But I do not believe it will always be that way.

I think the family market is changing again. There appears to have been a time journaled in popular newsmagazines of a "me" generation, and a success oriented culture, where family creation was being delayed in favor of material success. Currently, newsmagazines are reporting a different trend. There is an increasing interest in flex time, flexible work schedules, adoptive parents being granted paid leave, etc. There is a change in the market today. Adventure Guides is the Diet Coke for us.

Tribal Connection

I love my (our) new tribe!

I was so worried that I'd scare them off with my tendancy to overwhelm and strangle people with information, that I was delirious with relief after they left tonight.

They are both too cute. First, Mom 1 is a teacher. She's a delight and probably has a lot of great craft ideas (because, although I am artistic... I am not really craft-y, they are two very different skills). Mom 2 is an experienced camper. While camping may have scared off a friend of mine, certainly a few bugs in a tent won't frighten this camper enthusiast. I cannot use their real names because of my spiritual agreement with my husband, we do not soul-steal and use their real life names.

I was very proud of the facts that I strove to cover : our responsibilties to sponsor a minimum of two events (please, let's do the easier ones!), our costs for vests and membership, and wampum or monthly club dues. I aim to be very upfront about money and costs. With gas prices these days, I think it'll be close to a sin to ignore any costs involved with the group.

Or Club. "Club" was Mom 2's smart word. It makes sense. Our little girls understood "Club" more readily than "Tribe".

What is our "Club"'s name?
Our darlings suggested....

Earth
Blue Dolphins
Butterflies
Sparkle
(something with) Princesses
and my personal favorite
Silverfish

We'll decide this summer how we will name ourselves, and my goodness, begin our TRIBE. Wahoo!

I Scream Dreams

Pretty soon, the screaming will stop. Pretty soon, the screaming will stop. I count the books in the Borders store window. I mentally outline their sign. Pretty soon, the sceaming will stop. As if in response to my inner mantra, my daughter's thunderous tear-fed shouting diminished to a soul wracking struggle of sobs. I eye her cautiously. I offer a hand in a gesture, are you ready for me? She slaps my hand away and a new indignant wail ensues. Pretty soon, the screaming will stop.

I admire the Adventure Guide Mom in me. I pause to thank her. Thank you, AGM, for holding back my instinct to scream just as bloody hard.

Years ago, pre AG, I was a proud little bully of a mom. Do this, do that, no, no, no, stop, come back here, stop, do that again and you will lose your toy! My angelic son tolerated me for years. One day, during the Adventure Guide program, I realized my son was only a child, seeking to belong. And what was I doing? Showing him how out of place he was. I credit the program, but truly the people (Thanks, Sheltering Aerie! Running Spring! Lightning! and... LG , I forget your guide name, sorry! Thanks, Windsong! Thanks to all my Blazing Blackfoot sisters!) are who showed the light onto the path that I now strive to earn the right to walk.

The screaming is again subsiding. Rainbow Bunny learned earlier that I cannot afford to buy her a toy at this store. No. Correction. She learned that I refused to buy her a toy, am an evil mother, probably will starve her beyond recognition, and, of course, am likely saying mean things about her to her brother. "Afford" is not in her five year old vocabulary.

AG mom, where are you?


I am here, relax, don't worry. Everything will be fine. Ignore anyone who looks at you. (http://mom-101.blogspot.com/2006/11/sanctimommy.html) Outlast. Outlast.

Outlast? This volcano of emotion? AG Mom, you've spent too much time with patient, angelic Little Puffin. That's not reality. I steal a glance at my hyperventilating princess. That, that is reality.

Spending more time with my children over the past few years has improved me as a parent. Many parents, driven by the parameters of their lives, also drive their children to sports, from afterschool care, to a friend's house, to their next drop off point, but never truly spend time with them. By concentrating on Rainbow Bunny these past few days I've learned that she can swim "if I'm careful" in "the deep" (a resonant phrase for the place in the pool where toes cannot reach), she truly loves her brother ("No wait. He needs his goggles!) and ...sometimes... loves me, too. ("See my drawing? That's you!"). Because I have spent more time with her, I understand this too, shall pass.

Silence.

Without trying to show too much interest, I casually pick up my car keys. "Are you ready?" I ask. "Okay", is the heated reply, as Rainbow Bunny slams her bottom in her chair. She's not done being mad, but she wants to go home now. Now.

Ready, AG Mom?

Ready.

Mom-101: Failing Gloria Steinem Once Again?

Mom-101: Failing Gloria Steinem Once Again?

Name Calling

My husband reminded me that I had had my children's real names on the blog. Cautious as he is, I relented and went back and changed them, because, well it gave me another reason to write.

In the Adventure Guides, children and parents become someone else. They choose a very special name, name themselves, and has been in my case, name their parents. In a spiritual sense, you are supposed to Leave Behind your Other Self and Become the Adventure Guide... it's rooted in the Native American history of the program, which is very interesting. You should check out the national YMCA link on this page.

In general, due to the Native American  origins, there has been traditional names of tribes (Blackfoot, Pawnee, etc) and persons (Big Chief, Little River, etc). Over time, the Indian Guides (as it was once known) became the Adventure Guides. According to political gossip, its change is pinpointed to a time when somewhere on the East Coast, a group of Indian Guides wore war paint and whooped it up during a parade, alarming and insulting the Native Americans who viewed this. Honestly, I'm glad it changed over to Adventure Guides. The name speaks more accurately of the purpose of the program and is more cross cultural, therefore, acceptable to me.
Who, if they are Chinese, wants to be part of an "Indian" club? I believe even Native Americans don't like that term "Indian". In fact, speaking of accuracy, Indians should correctly refer to East Indians. I like how one of our current father-daughter tribes put it, when he showed me a special design he was making for a patch: a shadow of a dancing girl. When queried by the patch company, why black (the shadow)? He replies, there are so many persons of color in our tribe, we use the shadow to represent everyone, no one gets left out. I like how he did that.

Enter modern times and modern creativity. Tribe names have blossomed into Pacific Frontiersman (I like the frontier, rugged image), Dancing Sunshine (a father-daughter tribe) and Dancing Barbies (you guessed it... a father-daughter tribe). There are others. Somehow we cannot rid ourselves of callng ourselves "tribes", but no matter. Technically, a tribe is not necessarily Native American as you can be an African Bushman and have a tribe.

Children and parent names have also been creative. If you remember Man of the House starring Chevy Chase, names like "Spotted Feather" and "Squatting Dog" might come to mind. Some of the parent-children get a little creative: Sunshine and Moonshine (Guess who the parent is) or sentimental, Sheltering Aerie (parent of a Soaring Eagle) or risky: Sinking Stone (my son named me this. I think he overhead my opinion on camping, early in the program). Yes, there is a Running Bare. He's a wonderful dad to his daughter. Halfway into the program, my son renamed himself Little Puffin, because he admired the gentle and fun Dances with Penguins, a former Federation Captain (Big Honcho of the Program). I once again allowed him to name me... Big Puffin. You can only imagine the "Puffin" jokes that abounded. What you puffin? Who's puffin? my daughter is Powder Puff and my husband is Puff Daddy, etc. I would like amend he named me Big in the sense of Spirit and Intelligence.

So anyway, that's why there are so many interesting names in these articles. I can call a spade a a spade, but not if he's Johnny Walking, or Loose Goose or Shimmering Delight.

The Beginning was Quiet

I set out a few months ago to develop my daughter's new tribe. I was in effect, daughter-stealing. Rainbow Bunny had been enjoying herself in her dad's father-daughter tribe, but after much discussion, my husband and I decided that a good switcheroo was in order. Especially since my now nine year old son has spent the last four years growing more exasperated with my motherly ways. I needed someone on whom I could work off my parent-guilt, and I glommed onto my daughter. Daughter stealing sounds a little ancient, almost tribal, and therefore... perfectly acceptable.

Recruitment for our program was turning up very few fish. I could easily join another mother-daughter tribe within our program, but after experiencing tribe blending twice now, I can say that nothing beats the magic of building a tribe together. Besides, my daughter is a bit youngish, and, as parents know, not every child wants to be the "baby" in a group.

My hope was fading, until I slipped an article about the group into my daughter' school newsletter. Desperation actually had me interview myself and publish the tiny article.

Near the end of the school year, the phone rang. I never pick up the phone. The phone has become a deadly weapon in the hands of telemarketers and the answering machine my one shield of defense. I got the sweetest message. I learned about a new mom and her interest in the program. You could have been waving raw meat in front of a tiger's cage, I was so pent up with emotion and energy. Perhaps raw meat is not a way to describe a future friend.

After a short introduction at a recruitment session, even more delighted was I when she mentioned a friend. Three! A total of three so far in the tribe! Ideally, six or seven is great, but I could work with three, as for a time in the program, I was a "tribe" of two with my friend Lisa. I also knew of another person who might join, so happily, I look forward to becoming a tribe of four.

The school year wound down to a heart-stopping close and I dialed her number as promised. She replied via voicemail she could meet Thursday. Oh wahoo!

I hope I won't scare her off. This, uncomfortably, was becoming similar to prospecting for dates. Do I push forward? Hold back? Ask about her family? No! Too personal! Too pushy! Smile a lot? A little? I sigh. Just relax. This program will sell itself, because there is nothing like it. Nothing at all.

Fear of the Known

This is my second run through with the Adventure Guides and I am a little bit afraid.

Afraid that this time, with all my promises of focusing on my child, I will repeat my errors and neglect my sweetie. No. I will not think that. I do not believe that.

The Adventure Guides is an incredible program. It is essentially an organized play group with camping, crafts, hikes, museum and movie trips, etc. It's more fun that your average parent group because there are regular structured creative events and all that adult commiserating happens over a campfire.

No! This time it will be all about my daughter!

The first run through was with my son, my first born delight. It was accidental. Initially I sought out information for my husband, but as his work committments increased, he foresaw he'd be unable to commit. I couldn't bear to disappoint my son so I joined with him. The AG program is designed around a parent-child membership. I was looking forward to finger painting with him. He was five at the time.

I was unaware of the gravity of my decision when another new member, Valerie, informed me of the upcoming campouts, and wasn't that exciting?

HOLD! Camping? Me?

I do not believe camping is a natural thing. I was born in modernity, with a refrigerator, clean socks and drip coffee. This filled me with more dread than a third child. My ancestry is Native Hawaiian, if I wanted to dig taro roots and make my poi, I have that opportunity... but I BUY my poi. For a reason.

I couldn't imagine sloshing around with God's creatures either. I mean, they live out THERE. I live INSIDE. That is how things work.

After a miserable foray into Big Five Sporting Goods, I purchased some "camping stuff". I even bought beef jerky. I mean, it's camping food, isn't it? My husband assured me his army tent would work out fine.

When I had arrived at my first camp out with my son, I arrived in the dark. That army tent proved to be a canvas octopus, and an angry one at that. I suffered mightily for my camping sins. Later, my son enjoyed sleeping in our SUV. I explained it was like a "spaceship" and wasn't it nice to have a window?

Three years later, I've graduated to a pop up tent (that infamous army tent is still in our garage... why, I don't know), a campside drip coffee maker (fabulous!) and a headlamp for my baseball cap. I still constantly replace flashlights. I think there might be some alien creature in our garage that feeds on them.

Throughout those three years, I tried various jobs within the organization, determined to support the program, and found myself swept away by additional responsiblities. You see, I was also carting around my three year old daughter. The combination equated to very little actual time spent with Little Puffin. Upon reflection, it is actually pretty disappointing. You could think, well, she could have organized her time better, etc etc etc. But maybe. Maybe not. It really comes down to priorities.

This year, Little Puffin will graduate into the "older kids" program, Trailblazers, and enjoy time with his dad. I am aiming to redeem myself with my daughter this time around.
Wish me luck.