Previously published in the Dandelion Magazine Winter 2003
I’m well into my thirties and happily single. I’ll probably never have children, which, unlike a lot of people my age, doesn’t bother me.
There are those who feel the urge to make other little people, and then there’s me. If the survival of our species depended on my paternal instincts, we’d have gone extinct faster than a bunch of T-Rexes in Antarctica. Nope, fatherhood probably isn’t in my backpack. I’ve got to tell you though; I love being an uncle.
My niece - Jillian, Jillibean, “The Bean” - turned three this summer. One day I hope The Bean loves the backcountry as much as I do. Heck, I’d be thrilled if she likes it half as much. I can’t wait to see if she got the “outdoor lovers gene” in the genetic shuffle.
One of my goals in life is to hold the “most favored uncle” spot in The Bean’s mind at all times. When somebody says, “Uncle,” I want her to automatically finish the word pair with, “Jon.” However, I will not rise above her other uncles by showering her with endless gifts; I would rather have her love me for the experiences we share than for the things I buy her. Nevertheless, I do have one exception. I will buy her anything outdoor related as an antidote to the Barbie-garbage that her misguided, but well-intentioned, relatives dump on her. Nothing would make me happier than to watch The Bean grow up to be the anti-barbie.
One day I was surfing the internet when I stumbled across a Winnie The Pooh Backpacking Tent - yes, a backpacking tent. With Winnie, Tigger, and Egor plastered all over the kaleidoscope colored shell, it was a little kid’s pop-up dreamhouse. I thought: Score, THAT will get me years of most favored uncle status. Presidents will come and go before my tenure is interrupted. The other uncles will be screaming for term limits!
Do you remember how neat it was to have a little cave all your own? The one where mom and dad had to ask YOU if THEY could come in? Zippin’ up the windows, playing with your buds; it’s magic. I couldn’t type my credit card number fast enough. Twice the price would not have been unreasonable.
But mainly, I couldn’t wait to spend time with her in The Pooh Tent. She loves that pudgy little guy and having him splattered all over it would make the perfect introduction to camping. I wanted to give it to her so badly that the six-months until her birthday felt like a half-year of Christmas Eves.
On the big day, her dad prepared me for the worst, saying, “Don’t be crushed if she doesn’t flip out when she unwraps it. I don’t think she knows what a tent is.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not expecting much,” I said.
A blatant lie. I never thought I’d need a three-year-olds approval on anything, but somehow, suddenly, all my pride was riding on Winnie.
The Bean tore off the wrapping paper like a lioness ripping flesh from an antelope carcass and then everything came to a screeching halt when she saw the box.
Her mom tried to pump her up with, “Whoa, look Jillian, it’s a Winnie-the-Pooh Tent!”
The Bean had the Gee-Uncle Jon: I-always-wanted-a-stamp-album look on her face. My brother, realizing how damaging this could be to my own three-year-old psyche, quickly implored us to set it up. He opened the box and the tent flopped out like a roll of renegade toilet paper fleeing the bathroom. Meanwhile, The Bean stood there wondering why everyone was fussing over a stupid lump of nylon and some plastic poles.
Then we went to work. I pushed the poles inside the lump and the whole mess popped to life. The tent floated back to the ground, Tigger practically kissed The Bean’s face, and then the magic happened. Her little blue eyes got twice as big as mine, her jaw dropped, and her face exploded into a ponytail wiggling smile.
I recognized the expression instantly. I had felt it hundreds of times as I traveled the world. I wore the same gaze the first time a Cessna dropped me on off on an Alaskan glacier, whenever I awake to snow in the backcountry, every time I sea-kayak with seals; with each new outdoor experience, I feel it. The best part was that The Bean was doing it right there in Nan and Pap’s living room. And, it was because of the tent that I bought her. And, it was perfect.
“Is that really mine,” she said?
“Yes Bean, that’s yours. Do you want to get in?”
We unzipped it and piled in. Although she was short enough to walk upright through the door, The Bean crawled in on all-fours just like, as she says it, “Unca Jon.”
The Pooh Tent still had that nylony, new-tent smell, and for the next couple of hours we played every tent-game imaginable. We bounced around it; practically overheated the zippers; had a tea party; and played some kiddy-cards. I couldn’t have bought a better present.
She loves the Pooh Tent. She calls me and says, “Come over Unca Jon and play in the Pooh Tent.” I don’t want to wear out her enthusiasm though, so sometimes I tell her I can’t come over and play in the Pooh Tent even when I really want to. That way, she’ll know the Pooh Tent is only for special occasions - like being in the backcountry.
I’m still waiting to confirm that she got the outdoor lovers gene somewhere in that budding jumble of DNA. At her age it’s hard to tell. I’ll still love her if she ends up liking makeup better than trail mud, but if I have anything to do with it, one day she’ll be roasting Barbies over our campfire.
My master plan is coming together. Don’t tell her, but for her fourth birthday she’s getting a Pooh Backpack. But more importantly, we’re going backpacking. I wonder what people will say when they pop over a ridge and see The Pooh Tent sitting in the middle of a valley with The Bean and me cooking dinner outside. They’re gonna to want a Pooh Tent, but mostly their gonna want a kid like The Bean who thinks her uncle is the best one on the planet.
Tags: assignment writing, backpacking, uncle, Winnie The Pooh Tent
