I am worse than my nearly two-year-old. She smiles right to me as she climbs up the stove and I pull her down and say no for the millionth time. She’ll make perfect eye contact and touch something she’s not supposed to touch, putting just one finger on an item and then looking to me for approval. I give her my disapproving mom look for the trillionth time. Like her, I push and push at boundaries compulsively without seeming to learn a lesson. I find the limits of myself and my daughter and then I inch up against them, just just to make sure we can’t squeeze out a tiny bit more. This is how I once again found myself alone in the middle of the trail with a screaming toddler wondering why I keep doing this to myself. And then I did something I’ve never done before.

The forecast called for blue skies. When this happens on an October weekend day, it simply must be taken advantage of. I’ve been itching to see some larch and I knew this weekend would be my best, if not last, opportunity before the fall rain comes. I decided to take Evie up to the North Cascades, a good 3 hour drive from our house, to a short trail filled with brilliant larch. I had the genius idea to wake Evie up before dawn and slip her into the car seat where she would go back to sleep while I drove. She didn’t go back to sleep. So I gave her snacks and entertained her as much as I could on the long drive. She did really well until the last 20 minutes or so when she finally had enough. She cried until I pulled into the trailhead and looked back to tell her we’ve arrived. She was fast asleep.

I woke her up and gave her more snacks with the promise of adventure and golden trees. She seemed up for it and padded down the trail pointing at rocks and trees. Though the sun was out, there was frost on the ground and I showed her how the iced-over puddles crackle when you step on them. She was doing great and I had high hopes that she would walk far on her own. She didn’t. She walked a little ways and then asked me to pick her up. I asked if she wanted to get in the backpack and she said yeah. With her in the pack I hustled along to cover some ground until she changed her mind and wanted down. I let her down but then she wanted up, but not in the backpack. I held her in my arms and walked a little but told her that I couldn’t carry her like that the whole way. Then she had a full on meltdown while I cycled between putting her in the pack, carrying her in my arms, and letting her walk. Then I gave up and just sat with her for a while, trying to console her and making sure she was warm in the cold shade of the trees.

This seemed to work and we walked a little ways more. Then she started crying again just as we passed someone who said we were close to an open area with sun. I picked her up and walked to the sun, promising a break and a snack. Sure enough, we found the sun and some lovely views and even a log to sit on. I gave Evie her lunch and we watched people and dogs pass us by. We were not even a mile up the trail. I coaxed her along offering her more peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the way. Then she would hunker down and sit to eat her sandwich at a snail’s pace. Each time I took a deep breath, summoning patience. It’s the journey, not the destination. It’s the journey, not the destination. I repeated this mantra, pushing out the counter thought: did I drive us all the way up here for nothing?

It was only two miles to the lake and three hours had gone by now. I kept thinking we had to be getting close. If I could just get Evie in the pack we would be up there in no time. I decided that I just needed to get her into the pack. I filled her up with even more food and changed her diaper and then told her how we could see the golden trees and the big mountains and the pretty lake if she got into the pack. She refused. I began to worry. We were a ways up the trail and it was getting late in the day. I was going to have to get her in the pack eventually to get back down the trail. That’s when I planted the pack right in the middle of the trail and decided she was going in no matter what. Of course there were hikers going by from both directions that got to witness the lovely sight of me forcing my screaming child into a pack. I waved them around us and they gave me sad looks. A couple with their young kid came along and gave me some words of encouragement and then I did the thing I never do. I asked how much further it was to the lake. They looked at each other with a gaze that I recognized. They said, “oh man, you’re getting there. You’re doing great!” This was hiker code for, “oh man, this lady doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into, poor thing.”

I finally got Evie in the pack and decided that I’d hike five more minutes up the trail. If she was still crying and screaming, I’d turn around and go back to the trailhead. If she stopped, I’d keep going to the lake. I walked for about 2 minutes and she was quiet. I glanced back and her head was hanging down, fast asleep. I hiked just a few minutes more into the magic of the golden larch and spectacular views all around. The larch gods blessed me with this quiet time all to myself the short way to the lake. I relished in it. I didn’t linger long at the lake though, and as I started back down the trail I felt guilty for being so happy that Evie was asleep. She was missing out on the best part, all that I had promised her.

Just before we left the larch forest and views, though, she woke up. She exclaimed whoa! and wow! as I pointed to the golden trees and pretty mountains around us. I let her touch the soft needles of the larch and she mimicked my enthusiasm. Pretty mountains and trees! she said in her tiny little voice. All of the worry, hesitation, and impatience I felt earlier melted away completely. Then she said, sing, mama!  So I sang. The ants go marching through the larch, hurrah, hurrah.

Maybe one day I’ll learn my lesson and find our limits. But until then I’ll keep pushing. Just a tiny bit.