The art of pooping in the woods

By Shauna Stephenson

 

Their heels clicked by on a small length of sidewalk, some skin-tone color, nude, beige, maybe almond, meant to create the illusion of length – long legs, smart cocktail dresses. Urban and chic and civilized. Friends of the bride, in from some metropolitan place that might as well have been another planet in contrast to this booted and denim-dripping corner of the West.

 

Clara, with four full years behind her, noticed the difference.

 

“Look at their shoes, mom,” she whispered.

 

I looked. Before us lay a great, grassy field. Mature trees, an old parade ground, officer’s quarters and the historic fort now used for weekend weddings and whatnot. It was the perfect setting - perfect for a busy kid used to playing in dirt and creeks and whatever she could find. Maybe we’d actually get through the ceremony.

 

I looked at her dancing now – left foot, right foot – antsy, one wild eye glancing toward the field as though she was calculating how fast she could make the dash.

 

“Clare?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Clare, do you need to potty?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Clare?”

 

“Mom! I don’t have to.”

 

I looked at the women in heels. The bride, tanned skin making the white of her dress that much whiter.

 

“Clara, we need to talk.”

 

From the start, she was raised to be an outdoor kid. To be most comfortable with no walls. Hours after she was born she was wrapped in an old sleeping bag, imprinting on the smell of smoke and sweat, the rustle of down in synthetic fabrics.

 

To this day, she sleeps better in a tent. Middle of nowhere, stars overhead and coyotes howling in the distance. And thank God for that. She won’t in her bed.

 

One of the most cited reasons for protecting our American lands is to pass them down to our children. A noble and pressing reason.

 

To me the urgency to maintain these lands is not as much about the future as the present. Sure, these are birthrights that should be guarded. But when I really think about my own reasons – my own selfish needs?

 

Public lands are my sanity.

 

They let us escape. They let me turn my kid loose to run, jump, ride and skip with no fences, to dig in the dirt, eat some bugs, play naked in the creek and whoop and holler without shushing. Watch a sunrise from a tent and revel in a sunset from the same. Climb trees and build rock castles and stomp in mud pies, build confidence and imagination and love for land and critter and most important to the parents in the group: Burn some of that pent up energy.

 

We all need that outlet. Anyone who thinks we should sell that off should be sentenced to a week with a pack of cooped up four-year-olds. Trust me. Minds will change.

 

My intent of a life surrounded by nature has already manifested. I have seen it and it brings me joy to see she has the benefit of boundless freedom, open space and woods and rivers and mountains, a benefit given to her by the good fortune of being born American.

 

But then there are times when her free-range life gets reigned in. Backfires even. I see the duality of expectation placed on her. Someday she will differentiate between the two – the lands that box you in and the lands that set you free.

 

That realization will not come today. Today she’s eyeing a cottonwood tree on the edge of the clearing. And I can tell what that look means.

 

“What mom? What do we need to talk about?”

 

She dances around a bit more. Crossing ankles. Bouncing.  Her hand grips the edge of the bandanna-like fabric of her skirt. I crouch down to her level, whispering in her ear.

“Clara. Hon. I know we are outside and I know the rules are confusing sometimes….But please, please, please…while we are at the wedding? Please don’t poop outside.”