This page will be gradually developed as I decode my camp journal. The days described will not initially be in order of occurrence, but in order of my desire ot write about them.
The respect or lack there was somewhat unexpected. It was from my five year old son while we were camping on Vargas Island.
“You stupid bum head!” he yelled at me and stomped his feed over the fallen log.
He was mad at me; I could tell. He didn’t usually resort to name calling, but clearly I had crossed over some amorphous line.
“You’re treating me like a girl…. and not like a REAL man!” he snapped.
this shocked me. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, and avert my eyes from my husbands look of amused hystarics. Where could he have picked up such a thing to say? “But Finn,” I tried, “You’re five years old, and we’re your parents. We have a right to not have our son unnecessarily dashed onto the rocks, just because he wants to walk across the fallen log, ten some feet about a pile of craggy rocks,” I tell him.
But he’s having none of it. “But, I am a MAN.” He insists.
We cajole his desire for manhood and settle on little young-man, one who still sits on his daddy’s lap to have his teeth brushed.
Chloe scowled at him, from the other end of the log–where she’d just walked unaided; that would make her our eight-year-old young woman… but she didn’t insist.