When I was seven years old, my mom and dad signed me up for Cub Scouts. One of my first memories about scouting was my parents taking me camping with the rest of my Tiger Cub den.
Before dark, my dad pitched the tent and after he fell asleep, I stayed awake for a long time, laying on the hard ground and hearing him snore so loud I’m sure he kept the rest of the campers awake.
Photo credit: R. E. Barber Photography (Creative Commons)
I don’t remember many other details from that camping trip. I don’t remember roasting marshmallows or snipe hunting or doing anything else that you’d expect a camp out to include.
I just remember my dad being there.
That’s one of the reasons why a year ago I went to the Dad and Me camp with my son, Kyle, which I wrote about here with my post on how to be a dad.
I almost didn’t go. Because when I think about canoes, I also think about my dad and that one time that I accidentally tipped us over once at his office picnic when I was ten years old. And I think about how I accidentally hooked my friend in the head the first time I tried going fishing. I’m about as indoorsy of a man as you can get. I have to protect my delicate writer hands, after all.
Putting me out in the wild is dangerous on many different levels. But I went anyway.
And today, I’ve got a double-whammy of a weekend planned. I’m headed back to Dad and Me camp tonight, then I’m camping overnight at our local zoo with the Cub Scouts tomorrow.
For the guy’s guy, it’s the perfect weekend. For a guy like me, not so much. But there’s a reason why I’m spending the weekend creating these memories with my boy.
I’ve learned that if I want to be in my son’s memories tomorrow, I need to be in his life today.
If I could sum up the advice for intentionally creating memories with our kids, it would be this…
Be there.
Our kids don’t care if we’re the best camper in the world. Or the best canoer. Or the best fisher. Or the best tent pitcher.
We’re already the best (unless they ask for dessert and we say no, then we’re the worst).
But being there isn’t easy.
It’s inconvenient. It’s messy. It takes us away from our routines that we like to hold onto so tightly.
And that’s okay.
Because twenty years from now, my son won’t remember the usual weekend routine, I don’t think. He probably won’t remember watching nonstop episodes of Octonauts on Saturday mornings.
I think he’ll probably remember the time that his dad planned a crazy weekend, just me and him.
I’m not going to be perfect this weekend. I’m sure I’ll get lost driving from one camp to the other. I’ll probably forget to pack something we need. And I’ll struggle pitching the tent with my writer hands.
But I’ll be there.
And I think that’s what matters.