A couple of days ago the outlook for the summer took a turn for the better.
After a little bit of online brainstorming, I confirmed that several California state parks within 1-2 hours' drive were reopening on a limited basis beginning next week.
That discovery led to the purchase of a gently used, lightweight, two-person camping tent via craigslist for under a hundred bucks (retails new for about $500).
After that, I booked 4 separate overnight reservations at those nearby state parks. The sites were chosen because they are convenient to access, work well for car camping, and have decent hiking trails. The plan will be to take each kid for a private "dirtbag dad" trip on an alternating basis, to provide a new experience and hopefully offer something to look forward to.
As part of our pre-camping warmup, I took my daughter (first up in the camping rotation) through the process of assembling the tent on our patch of lawn. It was secretly more about being certain I could assemble it after receiving instructions from the seller.
From the moment she saw the small stuff sack, she was completely enchanted with the notion that we'd be sleeping in the tent. As we connected the poles and hung the rainfly, she gushed with enthusiasm. When we entered the tent and stretched out, her eyes widened with disbelief. For a moment it was hard to read her reaction - second thoughts? Repulsion?
"Dad, I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep in this tent."
"Why is that?"
Big smile erupting over her face, "I think I might be too excited!"
My son concluded that, like a certain incantation from a favorite Harry Potter book, what seemed a small tent on the outside was actually a enchanted and unexpectedly spacious castle on the inside. (I'd forgotten that the enormity of the world is generous rather than sinister or threatening at ten years old.)
While I take one child camping, the other will be spoiled with attention by my wife, a true win-win proposition. If she had any sense of feeling left out, it disappeared as soon as she entered the newly erected tent - she promptly expressed relief at not having to spend a night in it.
(Her response reminded me of a card my cousin sent to a friend as a joke many years ago: You're pregnant! I'm not! Congratulations to both of us!)
Today I picked up a second sleeping bag and a couple of sleeping pads at Costco - a reasonable, modest investment in salvaging our summer.
Bedtime is when I realize we've reached an inflection point. My son, who views the world through the lens of food, confides that he's really looking forward to making s'mores for dessert over an open fire. My daughter asks if she can take photographs on our hikes, and feels very adult when I suggest we both bring journals to write down our reflections before we go to sleep.
Time spent together, intensely. Shared memories. New experiences. This might turn out to be an unanticipated version of the summer we were seeking after all.