As adventurous as I like to claim I am, there are some things I’d just never do. For example, I’d never wear socks with sandals. I’d never (again) ask my stylist for a bowl cut trying to look like Demi Moore from Ghost. I’d never intentionally skip a meal. I’d never say Donnie is the cute one from NKOTB.
And, for the most part, I can proudly say I’ve stayed true to my beliefs here.
When you’re a new parent, you say things like, I’d never let my kids demand to eat something other than what we’re eating. I’ll never rub that poison death cream into my baby’s soft skin to protect him from the sun. My child will never eat a month-old french fry off the floorboard of the car. He'll never pitch such an epic fit in the grocery store that I shamefully slide out the back door, leaving a piled-high cart of groceries inside, only to have him sweetly smile and say, “I love you Mama” once I’ve reached the car, pit stained and throbbing with embarrassment.
Oh, no. Never.
But, of course, you do it all. In the name of love. In the name of desperation. In the name of FINE-I’ll-give-you-the-goddamn-iPad-if-it-means-you’ll-stop-whining-for-just-one-minute.
But the mother of all never-evers, the one that I’d smugly swore to never even consider, the one that caused my upper lip to curl at the mere thought of it was this: I’d never, ever step foot into an American Girl Place.
In college, I lived just a half a city block from the Chicago American Girl Place and would watch, from my apartment window, all the pink-cheeked, ponytailed brats bounce into the building and exit, hours later, with magenta bags of bullshit. I would be outraged by the ridiculousness of it all. Doll outfits that cost more than my real outfits! Somewhat trashed moms with mimosas digging deeper into designer purses so their girls could sip pink lemonade and dine with their overpriced dolls. Tantrums thrown by spoiled little girls whose first words were “I want” and whose Daddies bought them ponies for Christmas. It all made twenty-one year-old me want to vomit.
Never. I would never.
But then, I had a daughter. A sweet, beautiful daughter who was turning seven who, thanks to smart marketing and catalogs sent through the mail, wanted nothing more than a Luciana Vega doll from, you guessed it, American Girl. Suddenly, all the never-would-I-ever became maybe-I-could-just-this-once. Besides, American Girl had come a long way in 20 years. There was now some diversity among the dolls and some pretty positive girl-power type messages within the not so well written stories. Upon researching, I even discovered that while the company did rob its customers for doll ear piercing (Seriously! Doll ear piercing?!) and hairdos, it also gave to some great charities. American Girl is a modern day Robin Hood! It can't be that bad. (Warning: this is the exact kind of rationalizing that puts you on the fast track to a bowl cut that you think could be cute.)
Eventually, my never, ever ended up being two plane tickets to Chicago, two-nights stay at a hotel, one massive birthday lunch at the American Girl Cafe, a Luciana Vega doll, and a matching girl/doll outfit.
The doll is an astronaut. Science is good! A female scientist is a great role model! (See what I’ve done there?)
At the end of it all, I had one happy Birthday Girl and boatload of remorse, but it wasn’t nearly as regrettable as the bad haircut.
What to do: American Girl Place Chicago, of course! It really is what little girl dreams are made of. Then, when you’re done, hit up the Shedd Aquarium and donate some money to saving the oceans. It’ll make you feel better.
Where to stay: We stayed at the Raffaello Hotel. Great little hotel so close to American Girl Place that you could almost throw a rock to it.
Where to eat: Pizano’s is an awesome kid-friendly Italian restaurant off the beaten path. Cheesecake Factory is everything you’d expect it to be. American Girl Cafe included top-notch service and makes incredible accommodations for food allergies (egg-free Birthday cake!).
“Isn’t that the place where that climber amputated his own arm?” I asked, quickly turning to my phone to Google it.
“No. That guy was in Canyonlands.”
“I swear it was Arches. Moab, right? Remember the movie with James Franco?”
I tapped my phone.
Arches National Park.
Cut off arm.
For the record, the climber who cut off his own arm with a 2-inch dull knife in 2003 was trapped in a canyon in Canyonlands, just 30 miles from Arches National Park.
“See?” Peter said. “Totally different.”
And that was that. We were going to Moab to explore the arches and try not to lose our limbs.
The Adventure Begins
Located in Eastern Utah, Moab is the high desert city that holds the key to Arches and Canyonlands National Parks. Surrounded by some of the most breath-taking and gravity-defying red rock formations in the world, Moab’s combo of small-town vibes and thrill-seeking adventure is a gem in the American Southwest.
Our adventure started with a reservation at Aarchway Inn. While most would say the real way to experience Moab is by camping, I prefer not to sleep with visions of rattlesnakes dancing in my tent. Also, you can read about how I feel about camping here.
Aarchway Inn is a basic hotel but had plenty for Skinny Jeans to explore within the property. With the temps reaching close to 80 in April, the pool was a welcomed way to wash off the winter. The on-site playground and breakfast (unlimited Fruit Loops!) were also a plus.
Rocks are Weird
After a night at the hotel, we prepped for a day at Arches. Backpacks. Water. Snacks. Pocket knife (just in case). A winding drive through what looked like red rock geysers erupting from the Earth took us to the visitor center where we tried to figure out what the hell was happening to make the landscape look like Mars. Inside the visitors center, it was a geologist’s dream, and I got lost somewhere between tafoni and cyanobacteria and picked up the Junior Ranger Adventure Guide so I, I mean, Skinny Jeans, could understand this natural phenomenon through matching games and coloring pages.
With a map in hand, we charted our course. We were unsure how much hiking Skinny Jeans would be up for or how much time we had before I started to get phantom pains down my arm as I imagined the climber pinned between boulders, sawing and cracking through his bone. (We’d be staying on the easy trails, mind you, many of them practically paved and wheelchair accessible, but this is how my brain works, people.) Driving from trailhead to trailhead and getting out of the car at each to explore makes the enormous park doable for just about anyone.
About nine miles from the visitors center, we stopped at Balanced Rock, which is exactly as the name suggests. From there, we hit up the Windows and hiked the primitive trail loop. We then drove out to the Delicate Arch viewpoint. With little kids, this is a perfect way to see the park’s biggest rock star. (I had to.)
We continued on to Sand Dune Arch, which was our favorite. Entering through the narrow nook is like slipping through a magic portal. Within a few steps, you’re inside what looks like a gigantic sandbox protected by high walls of red rock. Skinny Jeans loved playing in the sand and climbing from rock to rock. She looked longingly as the more prepared parents produced sand toys for their children, causing Peter and I to rummage through our backpacks to find anything resembling a shovel and pail. Unfortunately, Skinny Jeans was left to scoop sand with her shoe.
We ate a picnic lunch somewhere near the campground at Devil’s Garden before heading back down the road and out of the park. All the rock hopping burned almost an entire day and we were all ready for a dip in the hotel pool afterwards.
90s Rap Music Videos Lie
The town of Moab is quaint and full of folks who all look somewhat like the rocks around them: chiseled, red, and weathered. Most have spent the day (or decade) outdoors and are cooling down with tall, frosty drinks as they compare stories under umbrellas on the patios. As the sun sets, the town dims into a laid-back, slow-swaying evening; a stark contrast to the harsh heat and extreme edges of the afternoon. The thrill-seekers take a seat, maybe for the first time all day. The campers quietly wander back to their sites with bundles of firewood, bags of marshmallows, bars of chocolate. Quite honestly, it’s nothing like 2Pac and Dr. Dre made the desert look like in the “California Love" video, and I’m slightly disappointed no one is organizing a four-wheeler race across the sagebrush. But then again, it is Utah, after all.
Moab is like nothing I’ve ever seen and was an awesome adventure for my family. While I doubt we’d ever go in the dead of summer when the temperatures rise above 100, I’d go back in the spring or fall in a heartbeat. It’s good fun for everyone and just as extreme as you want it to be.
And--bonus!--no one lost an arm.
Where to Stay
Breakfast included, nice pool (although a little deep for kids under six or seven), playground. Two miles from Arches National Park.
What to Do
Arches National Park There’s a trail and rock formation for everyone. We loved the visitor center, and these easy trails: Balanced Rock, The Window Section, and Sand Dune Arch. If you go without little kids, Delicate Arch is where it’s at.
Moab Giants Dinosaur Museum: we didn't have time to do this, but if you've got a dino die-hard, you might want to check it out.
Mountain Biking: Moab Brands trails. Bar-M Loop is a mellow family ride.
Where to Eat
A couple of summers ago, I participated in a mountain bike clinic in Eagle, Colorado. As a novice rider who hadn’t been on anything but a bike with a basket for basically all of time, I learned five important lessons that day and one that even made me a better mom.
1. You're gonna need a better bike
If you think you’re going to zip up that first hill (what’s a little hill, right?) on a 10-speed or a hardtail from 2000, think again. Bikes have changed a lot in a couple of decades and while the bells and whistles (like disc breaks or suspension) might seem superfluous to those of us who remember tearing up the asphalt on our banana seat Schwinns with the rainbow streamers, they aren’t. Mountain biking is not the same as taking hot laps around the neighborhood or cruising paved rollers in your floppy hat to the farmers market. Yes, it’s biking, but it’s also on a mountain. A mountain. There are rocks and roots and death traps around every hairpin turn. And like a car, you want a bike that can handle that shit. You wouldn’t take a Fiat off roading. Same with bikes. Moral of the story? If you want to give mountain biking a try, either throw down on a good bike (and say goodbye to whatever you were saving for your kid’s college) or demo one that makes you feel like the confident and courageous bike-riding beast you are.
2. Shoes are just as important as your bike
One option is to lock your feet into your bike using cycling shoes and look like a cow slowly being tipped over when you can't clip out. The other option is to ride on flat pedals and use a flat, rigid shoe with some grip so you don’t fly over your handlebars as you dive down the descent. There's a lot going on during the downhill. You're standing up, weight balanced, holding on for dear life as the fat on the back of your arms knocks around like a fistful of marbles in a martini shaker. You contemplate your life choices. You wonder if a mountain lion is just giving you a head start. At the very least, you vow to work more on your triceps at the gym. Trust me, you don't need to worry about your feet coming off the pedals as well. For those reasons, I like my Five Tens. Whatever you decide, one thing I know is that your mountain biking shoes shouldn’t double as your gym sneakers. That would kind of be like skiing in jeans.
3. Mountain biking can get dirty
And I’m not talking about the thin layer of dust you’ll have lingering on your skin after a long ride or the sweat that’ll soak your sports bra. As our pack of wonderful women cranked up an incline, our coach Alison would periodically yell out cues like, “Go anal!” or “Boobs to Tubes!” to get us in the right position for the effort. Since saying, “get your butt back against the tip of your seat and your chest down towards the handlebars” is too much of a mouthful mid-mountain, our instructions were brief, but effective. I’m sure any passerbyers who could hear Alison’s orders thought we were in the adult entertainment industry and not just a bunch of middle-aged women huffing our way up a hill.
4. Bike shorts are meant to be worn without undies
While the old ones had the tendency to feel like diaper with a load, the new ones are quite sleek and meant to fit snug. Layering them with your favorite cotton skivvies causes chafing. Plus, no one wears the liners on their own, so with a loose pair of shorts on top, it doesn’t really feel like you’re going commando. Believe me, you won’t want to be picking a wedgie while your wheel is just inches from a 20 foot drop off. I’m partial to the Zoic Navaeh Shorts and Liner, which, by the way, I WON at the clinic.
5. You’ll do it, hate it, then do it again
As a glutton for punishment, I’ve made myself learn a lot of new things in my later years. I was in my 20s when I first strapped on a snowboard. Ten years later, after I’d caught an edge for the last time, I learned to ski. I was 33 and couldn’t keep up with the 3-year-olds. As a grown-up woman, I’ve learned to kayak, paddle board, cross-country ski, hike a 14er, and mountain bike. Am I good at any of these things? No. I’m mostly terrible. I crash and I bleed and I’ve cried (and there was one particular tantrum I threw on the side of Vail Mountain that almost caused a divorce). But I do these things because I want Skinny Jeans to see me fall, get up, and try again. Because if I don’t, she won’t. And that’s enough for me to, literally, get back in the saddle.
To the moms who allow themselves to be uncertain, to hold onto a hand as it reaches to drag you off the ground. To the moms who get it wrong on the first (or seventh) try. To the moms who can’t keep up, gasp for air as they clutch their lungs. To all the moms who brush off the dirt and the doubt, the guilt and the guessing.
I know it doesn't feel cute.
I know it feels like you won't make it to the next turn, to the top, to tomorrow.
But this is temporary.
The burning in your legs, like the baby you're holding, the child you're consoling, the teen you're fighting, won't last.
And while the descent will allow you to regain your breath, it will never be as rewarding as climbing to the top.
This adventure fits: Women looking for a boost of confidence and who aren’t afraid of a skinned elbow or two.
What to do:
Skiing, biking, rafting, and fishing camps for "real women and girls who want to focus on skiing and/or biking and not filet mignon and yoga." Participants learn from hand-picked coaches who are champions in their respective sports and certified either nationally or by Rippin Chix. "Be prepared for some foul language and loads of funny terminology. We train our coaches in our baby step methodologies, which enables even the most timid gal to conquer her fears."
COLORADO MAMAS: Check out the Eagle Outside Festival June 1-4 where you can demo a bike and take a Rippin Chix Skills and/or Singletrack Camp. I've demoed bikes and have taken both the skills and singletrack camps--totally worth it! When you're done riding, be sure to hit up the Bonfire Block Party on June 1 and 2 with 9 bands, 2 stages, Bonfire beer, food vendors, and a bike valet--everything you need to forget about the aches and bruises from your ride.
And, in case you missed it, last week I was over at BLUNTmoms talking about food allergies.
Ah, adventures in parenting!
Some adventures don’t take you to tropical places where tiny umbrellas top tumblers filled with frozen booze and the sand gets stuck in the sides of your suitcase. Some adventures we don’t seek; instead, they come straight at us, like a frightening game of chicken. Sometimes, the bullet you are trying to dodge, the one headed straight for your heart, is parenthood. And it can be hardcore AF.
Seriously, if there was a party to celebrate badassery, parenthood would be the guest of honor, carelessly blowing smoke rings and waving a giant middle finger while all the other so-called daredevils held its beer.
For some of us, it’s simply the adventure of parenthood itself, the exhilarating highs and the stomach-dropping lows, like a roller-coaster you willingly get on--hands up, smiling for the camera--but midway though makes you so dizzy you can't wait for it to end. For some, it’s the curve balls thrown at the last minute, the snap of a bone, the projectile vomit, the, “He did what on the playground?”
And, for others, the adventure takes place in what feels like a whole different planet--the sterile, curtain-drawn sections of the ER or stuffy waiting rooms with shitty magazines. These types adventures last long after the initial jolt and well into the descent. They hide like a snake burrowing just inches under the soil where you step; a reminder that you'll never again casually hop from one rock to the other.
For me, this adventure has to do with food allergies, something I’d once known nothing of but now desperately seek to understand. And while this adventure has taken us to hospitals and specialists and pharmacies, it’s also taken me, as a mom, to peaks (e.g., finding an egg-free cookie recipe that actually works at high altitude) and valleys (jamming an epi-pen into a small thigh) and all the detours of annoyance and anger and advocacy in between.
For the mamas who take these special adventures with me, who wind around this kind of hairpin turn, I share my thoughts about having a child with food allergies at Blunt Moms and hope to help others understand why this adventure is no joke. My apologies in advance if it's, well, pretty blunt.
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