Mud & Mayhem

There is no such thing as packing light when you have small children. There is only packing, and then packing more, and then standing in your driveway looking at what appears to be the entirety of your earthly possessions loaded into an SUV for a two day trip.

We went to the cabin this weekend.

The list, for context: pillows, stuffies, blankies — not that blanket, the other blanket — inflatable beds, diapers for the days we’d be there plus extra because anything that can happen will happen, water diapers, five days of clothing for a three day trip because of course, and approximately seventeen other things that felt absolutely non-negotiable at the time of packing.

We looked like we were moving out of our house. We were not. We were going for 48 hours.

Once you’ve successfully loaded a vehicle that should legally require a permit to operate, the next joy is the drive. For those who don’t know Minnesota — it’s very similar to New York and the Hamptons. The moment a Thursday hits, everyone within a fifty mile radius of the Twin Cities evacuates north to their cabin. Everyone has a cabin. Or knows someone with a cabin. Or has a cousin with a cabin. The point is, everyone is going up north at the exact same time, on the exact same highway, this weekend.

The dream is to time the drive with nap time. A sleeping toddler in a car seat is a gift from the universe. We did not get that gift this weekend.

What we got instead was an hour and a half of:

Are we there yet.
Mama look. Mama look. MAMA LOOK.
I love you Dad.
MAMA LOOK.
Dad I love you.
Are we there yet.

I am a firm believer in letting kids be bored. Boredom is good. Boredom builds creativity. Boredom teaches kids to look out the window and exist in the world without constant stimulation.

One hour and thirty-five minutes in, we put on Moana.

Zero regrets. Zero parenting shame. None.

Getting to the cabin and unpacking is actually the easy part. The hard part is setting up the travel crib, getting the gear sorted, and trying — truly trying — to keep two children who can see a lake from standing directly in that lake for thirty consecutive minutes so you can finish unpacking. It cannot be done. It should not be attempted. Just accept that someone is going to be wet before you’re ready for them to be wet.

But once you settle in? It’s magic. Watching them play in the sand, get out on the boat, run barefoot toward the water with absolutely zero hesitation — it is genuinely one of the most beautiful things about being a parent. Dirty feet and limited showering and navigating nap time in an unfamiliar place and being okay with all of it because the joy on their faces is worth every single thing it took to get there.

And then it’s time to go home.

The clothing and gear that fit in the vehicle on the way up no longer fits on the way back. I cannot explain this scientifically but it happens every time. Everything has multiplied. Nothing packs the same way twice.

And the patience that held the whole family together for three hours on Thursday? Gone. Completely and entirely gone. The drive home is the same three hours. It is not the same three hours.

We survived. We always survive. And we’ll do the whole thing again next month.

That’s cabin life. Worth every chaotic, overpacked, Moana-soundtracked minute.

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Up north people — what’s the one thing you always forget to pack or always overpack? Drop it in the comments.