Ok, I may be sharing too much by telling you this. I am horrible. There is something very wrong with me. In all mom-things like loving my children, making a mean chocolate chip cookie, and telling an academy award-winning bedtime story, I rock.
Unfortunately, there is a part of my Mommy-DNA that has mutated over the years.
I HATE SCHOOL FIELD TRIPS.
Yes, it’s true. I hate school field trips. I abhor them actually. There aren’t words to describe my deep dislike for all things field-trip. The moment the permission slip makes it home and finds its way out of my child’s backpack and into my hands I scream in silence, “OH NO. NOT ANOTHER TRIP TO THE ZOO!”
Having four children means I’ve been on countless trips to planetariums, science museums, community farms and in our case…Coloma. For those of you not up on your California history, this would be the spot on your map where gold was discovered. Today marked my third field trip to the little town of Coloma.
I know this field trip so well, I can finish the tour guides sentences. “Keep your hands to yourselves. Be respectful. No food, gum, or drinks inside the museum. And, make sure to use your inside voices.”
What are inside voices anyway? Oh yah, that’s the voice I use every time my son or daughter shoves a note from their teacher in my face, requesting my presence on a ride from hell with a bus load of children.
Many of whom don’t mind, ever.
And surprise, surprise, wouldn’t you know it, one of those kids is ALWAYS in my group. Coloma field trip number three was no exception. By the end of the day I wanted to take …(well, let’s just call her “the child who needs a beating”) aside and do her and her future teachers a favor.
Thankfully, this time I refrained.
I may have a mutant field trip gene, but I was still able to plaster a smile on my face when my little girl panned for gold and made a leather satchel to hold her priceless discoveries. I even kinda (I said kinda)enjoyed hiking up the side of the mountain with my sweetie-pie to see where John Marshall is buried.
For the third time.
The croissant sandwiches she made for our lunch were the best I’ve ever tasted. Even if she did forget to add any mayo or mustard. And hearing her proudly declare to anyone in earshot, “This is my mom!” was pretty neat too. My love for my precious little Gracie was the elixir I needed to get me through my third Coloma excursion and field trip number 4,573,122.
Hmmmm. Maybe I’m cured.
Me and my baby girl in front of Sutter’s Mill.
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