At one point, on leaving the shelter of a coarse grass rise, wind pulls so heavily she’s stopped,
a mere second to experience a force overwhelm her
panic spasms little limbs
I see it and stop
but my child already has her eyes on a granite boulder sanctuary
We’ve waited five years to enter the Cairngorm massif as a family. Today, fresh from the long drive north, we create a reality that we’ve manifested since attempting and abandoning a modest munro at six weeks postpartum. Baby in tow.
Today she thrives.
Confident in her limits
she sits as protector of clothes piles while we slide into our lochan prize
limbs twisted into strange contortions by wind texture that mires the lochan surface
On driving home that evening our five year old sleeps behind us and we ask each other: Do we push her too hard? Should we do more ‘child’ stuff at weekends? Is she having fun?
Doubts swirl and parental guilt slowly seeps into our perception of a weekend that was truly incredible yet in the length of only a conversation we’re already changing the narrative; her collection of quartz crumbs clack in the footwell as if pleading with us. Yes, our cheeks sting with a mix of sun and wind burn but we ignore how good it feels as we consider how else we could have spent these two days. Play through the Monday morning bus stop chat about the cost of farm park entry and the temperature of public swimming pools.
Should we tilt our personalities and give our child a different version of ourselves?
Monday morning comes round and all three of us bound into our week beginning; into our routine with energy.
That’s how I know to quieten the doubts of our drive the previous evening. Five years was a short wait because we never were waiting. She’s been carried, guided, encouraged, challenged, thrilled and loved while immersed in nature since I was recovered enough to walk, so to seek out a new lochan in Scotland’s granite mountains is simply what we do.
In the aftermath of our Cairngorm trip I experienced a leap in assurance as a parent. I know my child but if we—who have built entire adult lives around mountains and adventure—feel the pressure to conform to the social, and ultimately economically driven, image of family time, what chance does a parent new to the outdoors have of exploring this unknown world with their children?
When we repeat the idea
that young children can’t hike far
that young children need constant stimulation
that young children need nature in contained environments
that young children get easily bored
or don’t know their own limits
don’t have capacity to create their own entertainment
can’t keep up
won’t keep up
We not only keep their breadth of experience narrow but we place hurdles in between them and future opportunities. Meanwhile we slowly corrode parental aspirations in many cases where individuals already feel that grip on their own personalities has slipped.
I want to increase the volume of this discussion because I know plenty of parents taking their children out to experience nature, or adventure, or embarking on activities most might deem ‘adult’. But I want to consider how we could make this the norm? And to consider the many different shapes ‘family time’ should take.
Living in the Lake District means living in a bit of a bubble, surrounded by outdoorsy families. But I’m discovering that even within this bubble, powerful marketing of expensive, child-friendly activities will keep the status quo in place unless we challenge with example.
This guest post has been shared with us by Melissa Davies, a Cumbria-based freelance writer and poet, working on place-based creative projects. You will find more of Melissa’s work here: https://substack.com/@melissawrote and you can follow her on Instagram here: @melissawrote