We’re planners and doers, the type of family that’s crazy enough to RSVP for back-to-back children’s birthday parties. Why? Because families of five don’t turn down free meals – have you seen our grocery bill?
I’m kidding, of course. It’s because we know how much effort parents put into birthday parties, and we don’t want to let our friends down.
Anyway, my point is, lying around the house – or worse, getting so bored we actually start cleaning it – doesn’t happen often.
So when my husband announced recently that it was officially “Laundry Day,” three things ran through my mind: 1. Oh man, I wish we hadn’t already seen the movie playing at our local theater. 2. Ha, if he thinks our laundry is out of control, maybe I should introduce him to the reality series “Hoarders.” 3. Quick, think of something – anything – that will allow us to escape the confines of a cluttered house with the most basic cable television, two barking dogs, three rambunctious kiddos, and a heap of dirty clothes that is apparently so huge a local holiday has been proclaimed in its honor.
That’s when the idea hit me.
“Laundry? We can do that any time,” I said. “It’s hot outside. Let’s pack a picnic and take the kids down to the river. We’re not going to get many more days like this.”
Apparently my husband’s allegiance to Laundry Day wasn’t very strong because he was wearing swimming trunks and had rounded up five beach towels before I could finish turning an old pair of jeans into cutoffs. Hey, don’t judge me: cutoffs are what all the cool moms wear to play in the river – and I had discovered that my other shorts were in what suddenly seemed like a tower of dirty clothes.
I grew up in Eatonville, and playing in the Mashel River on the edge of town was one of my favorite pastimes. There are plenty of shallow areas, so I knew our kids would be safe. But there are pools that are deep enough to swim in as well.
As we approached Smallwood Park, where there’s access to the river, I was overcome with feelings of nostalgia and pride. I was about the same age as my daughter when my sister and I began playing in the river with our friends, splashing in the water, roasting marshmallows over campfires, foolishly trying to ride the one- to three-foot rapids with patched up inner tubes.
The river was a great place to cool down after an afternoon of picking blackberries and riding bikes. I often helped my best friend finish up her afternoon News Tribune paper route so that we could go play in the water.
Our love for the small river faded as we grew older and began going to other local swimming holes, ones that were deeper, farther away from town and filled with teenagers who blasted Bon Jovi and Def Leppard from portable stereos.
It had been years since I had actually played in this part of the Mashel River, and I was excited to see what my kids would think of it. I smiled while thinking, “This is one of those circle of life moments like in the ‘Lion King.’”
I was sharing a tradition with my children. I was teaching them a heritage of living in Small Town America. I was proving that life could be fun without air-conditioned houses and chlorinated swimming pools.
After a short walk and careful climb down the bank, my husband and I waded in the water up to our knees. We tried to coax the kids to follow us. But they stood on the banks, looking at us like we had lost our minds.
“The water is freezing.”
“The rocks are slimy.”
“I’m scared.”
“This place smells gross.”
Their words cut deep, and I looked at my husband, who was equally surprised.
Just 24 hours earlier, we had spent a small fortune on Carhartt-brand clothing and Romeo-style leather shoes for back to school Now they’re acting like city kids?
I knew there was only one thing to do: start a water fight. And before long, we were all playing in the river, to some degree.
Our daughter didn’t want to hurt any periwinkles, so she spent most of her time on one of the big rocks in the middle of the river. Our oldest son swam in rapids that went up to his waist and seemed dangerous, even though they weren’t. And our youngest son picked up rocks on the bank, mainly looking for bugs.
We made it about an hour before one kid had sand in his eye, another had scraped his arm up quite a bit, and the other was pretty sure she saw a snake, rodent or giant bug in the nearby bushes. The consensus was that it was time to go.
I was a little disappointed that our kids didn’t have an instant affinity for playing in the river. But I was glad that Laundry Day had been delayed for another weekend.
Lisa Pemberton covers education for The Olympian. She’s also one busy mama with three children, ages 4, 6 and 10. Reach her at 360-754-5433 or lpemberton@theolympian.com.
