Grandma/Grandpa invited us to go Fall camping. Here‘s the thing about Grandma/Grandpa: when it comes to The Great Outdoors, they are always overly (in my estimation) ambitious. Growing up, that meant hiking portage trails with all of our equipment on our backs, during peak-blackfly season, while only able to drink water purified by iodine tablets (legit hard-core, you guys)! I don’t think I even realized that other Provincial Parks, besides Algonquin, even existed until I started camping as an adult. Regardless, knowing that we’d have just arrived home from Quebec the weekend prior to this one, I took the easy way out and searched the Provincial Park website for a car camping site within a two-hour radius of home. Options were slim, but I finally settled on Rondeau Provincial Park, located just 2 hours South-West of us, in Morpeth, a part of Chatham-Kent.
Rondeau Provincial Park spans 3,254 hectares and boasts an 11-km beach sandy beach on Lake Eerie, old growth Carolinian forest as well as extensive coastal wetland. The park was established in 1854.
After studying pictures of the campsites that were not yet reserved, I finally went with a large campsite, with ‘medium shade’.
Sidebar: thank you to whomever came up with the idea to take pictures of each campsite and make them viewable on the website, you are brilliant!
Advance prep is a huge part of the success of any of Bean’s Atypical Adventures. During my limited experience camping with the Bean, I’ve realized that having a site:
with at least medium shade
far from loud noise: highways, radios, barking dogs
not near a busy road and
some distance from the next site, are all crucial to enjoying our time away from home.
So, after we all disembarked from Grandma/Grandpa’s VW Bus, I started setting up camp for the Bean and I. Now, the Bean’s first camping trip took place in a tiny, 3 person tent, which Hubs seemed fine with until he spotted our friends’ tent, which was much larger and YOU CAN STAND UP IN IT. Why do you need to stand up in the tent, I’d asked? That friend had offered to lend us their tent for our next camping trip, which I had a sneaking suspicion would cost me money. It did. Welcome to the 6-person-you-can-stand-up-in-it Parthenon by Kelty. What you see in the picture is me, struggling with set-up, with Grandpa’s hands holding the instructions in the foreground and the Bean, ‘setting up’ the soccer net.
What you don’t see (I hope) is the fact that I’m having a panic attack and breaking into a cold sweat, trying to get this tent set-up, the Bean changed into her swimsuit and down onto the beach before the sun completely disappears.
Once she’s ready, I send her ahead to the beach with Grandma/Grandpa. I collapse, alone, in our oversized tent, for 5 minutes. Then I get up, because hey, my kid’s waiting for me at the beach! I follow the path, conveniently located next to our campsite, down to the beach. I’m enjoying the stroll until I come across a sign warning campers about tics and the possibility of Lyme disease. It made me miss the days when no one bothered to warn anyone about tics or Lyme disease. I try to picture what I’d thrown over Bean’s swimsuit for the short stroll to the beach. I hadn’t expected the dense Carolinian forest along either side of the narrow path to the beach.
The path spits me out onto the beach and the water opens up in front of me. As far as I can see is the lake, ringed by sandy beach and forest. I locate Grandma, Grandpa and the Bean. With only one couple close enough to even see, I breathe a sigh of relief and sit down on the towel next to Grandma. I watch the Bean running on the beach to escape Grandpa, her giggles and squeals bring a smile to my face.
More and more, I’m realizing the value of arriving somewhere and giving her some time to take it all in. I try to make a habit of watching her explore a new space, adjust to the noise level and adapt to the lighting and temperature. While I’m observing Bean observing her new surroundings, I try not to ask anything of her. Time for snack? Change of clothes? Her hair has to be re-done? It can all wait. I think back to some of the autism simulations Hubs and I have watched and try to imagine what our surroundings would look/sound/feel like if everything were amplified: louder, brighter, more coarse. I hone in on what she seems interested in, what does she touch, stare at, seem to be listening to?
The Bean is done being chased and plunks herself down on the edge of our previously sand-free blanket. She digs both of her hands into the sand, scoops it up in her tiny little fists and shakes her whole body as she lets the sand fall gently to the ground. She repeats this action endlessly. I rarely tire of watching her do this now, as it was only last February that I saw her play with sand for the first time on the beach in Cuba.
Bean’s brought us so much joy over the past 5 years and taught us so much. That probably sounds trite, but if you only knew her cynical, malcontent mum-mum, you’d understand exactly how genuine that statement is! One of the most important lessons that the Bean has taught me, is the importance no, necessity of, acknowledging, basking in, appreciating and/or celebrating every achievement. And today, I bask. With only one other beach trip since Cuba, her desire to play in the sand and the fact that she is wiping that sand all over her body and getting so dirty, but isn’t even bothered by it, is EVERYTHING! Plus, this is heavy, wet sand, not the light, dry sand that she’s become accustomed to workin’ with! Less than two and a half years ago, she refused to have her bare feet even touch the beach. And by ‘refuse’ I mean she SCREAMED and cried, tears running down her cheeks, to the point that I thought she’d been stung or bitten by something. Even just last summer, she wouldn’t have handled the sand with such blissful abandon, laughing with joy. And here we are today. While to most, this may not be a big milestone, to me, it is hope. Without even knowing it, face and hands covered in sand, the Bean has given me hope that there may still be beach vacations in our not-so-distant future.
We take off down the beach, doing Bean’s fave funny walks: marching, hopping, galloping and shuffling along. We squat down at the water’s edge and throw rocks into the Lake. Then, at the water’s edge, she starts to whine until I bend down to find out what’s wrong. She grabs ahold of my hands and firmly wraps them around her waist, indicating that she wants to be lifted up. I lift her into my arms, assuming that she was afraid of the lake getting her wet. After less than a minute, she starts whining again and attempts a swan dive out of my arms and back towards the sand, as if she wants to be put down. This cycle keeps repeating and I become so frustrated that I can’t give my daughter whatever simple thing it is that she needs from me in that moment that it brings tears to my eyes. I tag Grandma/Grandpa in and take a moment to compose myself so that the Bean can’t see how sad I am, how helpless I feel. We're up, we're down.
We pack up our things and head back along the path to our campsite.
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