Eastern Mountain Parenting

I’m special.  I know this because Elmo’s been diligently telling me so for 30 years now.  I also know this because I own a drytop and a throwbag.

That seems to be the story of my generation:  “Being different is being great.”  I find myself, along with most of the outdoor community, taking this idea to a new, almost competitive level. 

Outdoor people are special because they go places and do things most people never will.  Like some kind of secret society though, there are circles within circles.

Protecting the Moneymaker

Climbers are more elite than cyclists because anyone can ride a bike, but only a smaller group can use a carabineer for something other than holding keys.  Paddlers feel more special still, because even fewer people are willing to try a sport where your face needs its own roll bar.  The Holy Grail?  The Most-High-Grand-Masters of the outdoor community?  Ice climbers.  They actually use those badass looking axes that every outdoor store displays for street cred but almost never sells.  How many ice climbers do you know? 

Yeah.  They’re special.

So why do we want to be part of the smallest circle?  When I got into paddling, I found myself immediately wanting to buy paddling t-shirts and put kayaking stickers on my water bottle.  I wanted the world to know that I could do something they couldn’t. 

Are we so insecure that we need to show off each new skill?  Does this come from a basic dislike of the rest of humanity?  “I’m not like you” seems to be the message we’re all eager to send. 

We want to find an identity with the most elite tribe that will let us in the door. 

Identity.

…

Sounds pretty important. 

Like, maybe…       too important to be bound up in our toys and hobbies. 

This is on my mind because a lot is changing for me right now.  I’ve always pictured myself as someone who would hold onto their active outdoor lifestyle no matter where I lived, how my body aged, or what ominous sounds my knees made when I went to tie my shoes.

But something’s happening that’s making me feel simultaneously very ordinary, and very important.

In 4 months, I will no longer be a kayaker, a cyclist, a climber, or a camp director.  I’ll be a father.  Oh, I’ll still paddle and ride.  But next to holding my boy?  Those things will be insignificant.  They’ll be toys… hobbies.  Identity?  No.

To be honest, I never thought of it this way until it became my reality.  I knew relationships and family were more important than skills and toys.  I think we all know that.  But subconsciously I feared losing my edge if I became a Dad.  Dads don’t tear through singletrack on their bike.  They overeat at family gatherings and fall asleep on the couch.  Would I get out at all, or would I become a prisoner, locked indoors by the needs of my child?

Now that it’s here though, the whole question seems ridiculous.  Who cares?  Paddling class 4 rapids is pretty cool but blowing bubbles with a giggling toddler might mean more somehow. 

The focus shifted when I wasn’t looking.

Not everyone has the blessing of children, but it’s not exactly an elite group.  There’s nothing unique about fathering a child.  Heck, lets face it, people do it by accident a lot more often than we’d like to admit. 

Fathers, mothers, grandparents, friends:  These are not exclusive groups.  But they are identities.  These are clubs without t-shirts or bumper stickers.  That alone might say it all.

Maybe these people aren’t special, or different.  But sharing life is being great too.  It’s not always what makes us unique that defines us.  We’re all in this together, and the things we share just might be the most important, most meaningful things we’ll ever do.