We went camping this weekend. In a tent. In the woods. In another state. In the mountains. Everyone told me I was crazy for taking my almost-3-year-old triplets on a real camping trip. I told them it’d be fine. It’d be fun. They’d do great.
They were wrong. I was right. It was fun. They did great. It was an AWESOME weekend.
True, camping with three little kids isn’t anything like camping with just adults. They tested my patience. They made their daddy nervous. There was scolding, tears, boo-boos, triplet fights and more than a few repeats of “No!” and “Be careful, please,” and “Don’t touch the itchy leaves!” and “That’s not safe,” but there were no real injuries – not even a scrape requiring a bandage – and there was only one time-out.
At one point, I was fretting to Rob about missing out on one thing or the other simply because of time or logistics or probably just having too many things on my want-to-do list. He stopped me and pointed out all the things we were doing. And all the things we have done.
I’m a dreamer, which is a blessing and a curse. I’m also clearly a do-er, but I have a hard time turning the dream machine off even when I’m in action. I’m always planning my next big conquest, and I tend to get carried away with what I think should be happening next rather than what’s happening now.
One of my biggest fears in becoming a mother of triplets was that our family wouldn’t experience things like singleton families. I made it my goal to keep as many of the the “OMGTRIPLETS?!” hangups from negatively affecting their lives.
Comparing the trips, excursions and outings of my only-child childhood with that of my triplets who aren’t quite three … well, let’s just say I’m fairly sure that if the scales haven’t already tipped in their favor, they’re pretty close to tipping.
Naysayers, fear mongers and my own worries have no chance against my hopes and dreams.