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Critter begged for the duration of our trip in Montana for a pocket knife. He wanted to learn to Whittle.

Before we made our decision to support this, we had to consider the following:

1) Critter is the human version of Tigger, only smarter, thank God.

2) Critter is 9.  9 Year Old boys are not known for their discerning judgement no matter how smart they are.

3) We have some nice wooden furniture at home that we’d like to keep nice.

On the other hand:

1) The sooner Critter trains with a knife, the sooner he’ll become proficient at it, the sooner he’ll be less likely to lose a finger or two.

2) We have a small, constantly shrinking window of time where Critter will come to us with these sweet curiosities.  Soon his curiosities’ subject matter will surpass our ability to teach him.  Opportunity is knocking now.

3) Wooden furniture, though nice, is just inanimate, and is fully replaceable.

So we relented.  He now owns several Montana-made pocket knives.  And the lessons began on the trip.

Critter listened.

He worked carefully.

He made some mistakes.

But most importantly,

Critter learned.

And My Captain…

… loved.

(PS, Varmint learned to whittle on this trip too, but that is for another post altogether….)

Varmint is learning life-skills.

Today’s skill was how to stop hemorrhaging.

Well, it didn’t start out that way.  Actually it started out that I was teaching her how to make a peach cobbler.

First she cut her thumb.

Then she cut the crease between her second and third fingers.  (You KNOW how hard that kind of cut is to put a bandage on.)

I finally let her stop yeilding the paring knife when we couldn’t distinguish between the peach juice and the blood.

And then we added a bunch more lemon juice and sugar to cover up any odd flavoring in the cobbler.  You KNOW how the iron flavor of blood can just ruin a cobbler.  I’m pretty sure Martha Stewart covers that in one of her very first cookbooks.

So I guess we can add ‘Camouflaging the taste of blood in food’ to our list of life skills practiced today.

Cobbler, anyone?

It amazes me how hard My Captain worked…how much overtime he had to accumulate…in order for us to afford a two-week camping trip to Montana.  Sure, the airfare from Reagan National Airport to Kalispell, Montana was exorbitant, but he worked for much more than that.  There were camping essentials:  the tent, the sleeping pads, sleeping bags, cookware, food, gas, SUV rental, more food, wilderness outfitting, National Park camping fees, more food, and, er, beer.   It all added up to a rather daunting sum.

But the funny thing is, of all the things we did, of all the adventures and challenges we embarked on, the one activity that gave the kids the most fun only cost $2.00.  That’s it.  The sum total of two cheap plastic rafts from the dollar store.

The rest of that tab was picked up by Mother Nature.

She’s a generous old broad!

We’d been on our camping trip for the better part of a week, and we were getting a little tired.  Varmint was starting to miss her creature comforts, her friends, and her cats.

And she had fallen into a funk.  Oh, it was a temporary funk, but it was a funk none-the-less.

So I did what I always do as her compassionate, empathetic mama.

I teased her.

I teased, and cajoled and coaxed her relentlessly.

Hey there Varmint….cheer up, Buckaroo!  Frowning causes wrinkles!

Mom, stop.

Aw come on now!  It’s not that bad.

Mom, you’re not helping.

Come On little Varmint!  Give me a smile, my Little Buckaroo!

Mom, if I stare at you long enough, maybe my eyes will drill a hole into your head, rendering you speechless.

Aw baby, don’t be like that!  Give me a little grin.  Give me a little smirk.  A wee little smile.

No.

Please?

No.

Pretty Please?

No. Go away.

If you smile, I’ll buy you a piece of Huckleberry pie!

There, you see?  A mother knows.

And blood tells.

We were hiking to the Hidden Lake, excitement for what lay ahead pounding in each heartbeat.

Well…. it was either excitement, or I was going into A-Fib again….

Critter sprinted ahead, My Captain walked briskly not far behind, followed by sweet Varmint.

And I?  I slowly limped along, alone, way, way in the back.  Like, so way far in the back that we eventually lost sight of each other.

It’s ok, though, I had the mountain goats to keep me company.

When I caught up with them, I found them in a fit of giggles.

What’s up?  Why the giggles?  Shouldn’t you be whining by now about how long and tedious hiking is?

“Mom!  The rest of the path is closed!”

“Why?”

“BEARS!”

Let me get this straight…they are giggling because there are bears ahead?

I don’t get it.  Are they laughing because they don’t have to walk any farther, or are they laughing because the thought of a fierce predator in the vicinity makes them so scared they’re giddy?

The answer doesn’t really matter, because either way you slice it, I’m the one with the excruciatingly slow-paced limp. They had no worries of potential predators…..

I was their bear bait.