The things I hope she remembers

“You’re sure you want to take her solo?” my wife asked. 

“I think we’ll be okay,” I replied. Not confidently. 

The plan was to take my daughter on a quick overnight camping trip on crown land. No bathrooms. No power. No playgrounds. 

“I have the heater. Honestly I think she’ll just want to watch movies and read in the tent.” 

I was more confident in my ability to camp for a night than I was in keeping my daughter entertained, but, truth be told, she’s an easy kid. I figured the worst case was we’d have a poor night’s sleep, pack up early and come home. 

Our destination was about an hour and a half driving time. I promised we’d punctuate it with a stop at a small-town candy store. We pulled off the highway and stepped inside, eyes assaulted by colourful packaging shipped in from all over the world. I gravitated to some sour straws while I let my daughter make her own decision, a big moment for her. 

“Ew! That’s what you want?” I asked, laughing. She nodded her head excitedly, handing me a half-pound of candy corn. I shouldn’t have been surprised. She’s Halloween obsessed. We walked our candy to the counter, paid, and carried on our way. 

The rest of the drive, we talked. I answered questions about the finer details of life: candy corn, cows and bears. Typical 3-year old stuff. We sang too. Usually I dread the drive. Today I was having hilarious conversations you only get from a toddler. That mix of non-sense and vivid insights that come from someone experiencing a lot of things for the first time. 

We hit the turn onto crown land, rumbling onto a long gravel climb. I played up how difficult the truck was to handle on the soft surface before slowing down so we could watch a dozen or so mule deer take off up the hill and further onto the plateau. 

“Remember we camped here with… with…” my daughter trailed off, trying to remember her uncle’s name. 

“Uncle Justin? Ya. How do you remember?” I’m continually impressed by what she remembers. The trip was two years ago. “And here’s the spot we camped last summer when Mommy saw the bear,” I said, pointing to a near-perfect camping spot. Today it was taken. We kept driving. 

“I have to potty!” She blurted out.

“Right now? You can wait a couple minutes until we find a camping spot, right?”

“No! I have to potty right now!”

I pulled to the side of the dirt road, flicked the hazards on and ran around the back of the truck to unbuckle her from the car seat. The side of the road was steep, so I helped her pee less than a foot from the truck. Barely a dribble. I sighed, but knew she thinks “taking a bush-wee” is fun. I strapped her back in and we trundled down the road, the mud splashing up over the hood as we ventured further back. 

I spotted a fire ring, a stand of trees and an endless view of the prairies. Acting faster than thinking, I locked the truck’s brakes up on the greasy mud, sliding to a stop. 

“This looks good, hey?” 

“Ya!” she chimed. 

“Okay, let’s do it.” I pulled off the road, parked, and helped her hop out of the truck. 

“Want to look around?” I asked. She didn’t need to answer. She was already drawn to the trees, rocks and the foot-deep ashes of a fire ring. Watching her take it all in and gravitate toward whatever was interesting to her was one of those parenting moments that sticks with you.

“Stay close to Daddy while I open up the tent, okay? If you see an animal, tell me.”

“Okay!” 

I got to work, soaking in the relative silence of the area, punctuated by the odd growl of an ATV in the distance. As I opened up the tent, Kira kept up with the questions. I kept up with the answers as best I could. 

We explored the area around our home for the night. We walked down a trail, avoiding thorny vines protruding from the ground, admiring prairie crocuses drinking in the recent rain, and talking about the bear we’d seen the last time we camped. 

These were all such short, insignificant moments, but they all stand out as individual pieces of the larger trip, itself under 24 hours. No screens, not a lot of stress. Just a night out with my daughter, who I hope will one day love these spaces as much as I do. 

“This is our best camping trip ever!” she chirped as we made our way back up to the truck to start preparing dinner. My heart swelled and I leaned down to give her a hug.

In the same moment, a pang of guilt smashed through my stomach, knowing we only got out once the previous summer. She’s not even four yet, but I can feel the time accelerating as she sprouts taller and taller.

We sat together on a storage bin, eating off plastic folding plates with illustrated monsters all along the edges. It’s something I’ve never even thought about. She noticed immediately, trying to copy their silly expressions and showing me each one in the series of ten or so. We laughed, ate, and continued our ridiculous conversations. 

At home, the goofing off would be slowing down dinner, putting us behind schedule for an activity or some preplanned event. 

Out here, it was entertainment, and another moment I hope sticks around in both our memories beyond the summer. 

I already know I cherish the memories of these moments. I hope that some day Kira will too.