Type 2 Fun

It’s not a vacation, it’s a slow-motion train wreck that will make us some memories.

Brigid Colver

Two weeks ago, our family took a trip.

We kept it short and close to home – just two days at the Indiana Dunes – and we kept our expectations low.

It’s not a vacation; it’s parenting in a different place, goes the adage. 

And then there’s our version, dutifully repeated as we planned and packed: It’s not a vacation, it’s a slow-motion train wreck that will make us some memories.

Why do we do it?

Why do we pack seventeen small backpacks and tote bags full of tiny clothes and tiny stuffed animals and tiny baby Tylenols? Why do we double check for sippy cups and diapers and nineteen thousand snacks? Why do we spend our limited money on hotel rooms and misbehavior-filled restaurants and park passes?

I came across the term Type 2 fun years ago while researching another national park: Isle Royale. One blog, warning about the wet, cold ruggedness advised us to “expect lots of Type 2 fun.” 

“Ah,” I nodded along. “I know that feeling.” I had been backpacking before. I had run marathons. Heck, I already had babies at that point. I knew about fun that only exists in the distorted lens of hindsight.

Type 2 fun, in other words, isn’t actually fun. It’s the worst!

“We should turn around,” my husband muttered.

Cold rain fell as we pulled into the Indiana Dunes Visitor Center. It was the kind of gloomy day where it looks like no other kind of day has ever existed or will ever exist again, where you don’t know where the cloud ends and the rain begins.

NATURALLY, it had been 60 and sunny a few days before. OF COURSE, it was predicted to be 60 and sunny a few days later. But NEEDLESS TO SAY, the dates of our visit wouldn’t get above a high of 41. Plus rain.

“Guys!” I faked excitement. “We’re here! It’s your first ever national park!”

Indiana!! This was how we were introducing them to national parks: a park that courts controversy over whether it should even be a national park. Where you can stand on the beach and see power plants in both directions. 

7-yr-old cheered; 6- and 3-yr-old were already in tears; sleepy 1-yr-old rubbed his eyes. In we went, trudging through the rain.

Is all of parenting just an exercise in Type 2 fun? 

Auto-generated Memories pop up on my phone and squeeze my heart. There’s our daughter, a toddler, grinning in the sun. Flick. Our son, so small!, racing through a splash pad. Flick. Our other son, holding his dinosaur, cuddled tight against me. Flick. Our other son, a newborn, swaddled tight. 

Oh, I miss them. Oh, my heart. And oh, how the parent behind the camera was gray with exhaustion. How the off-scene volume was painfully high. How one of the shots was snapped at 4:30 in the morning, another during COVID lockdown. Those moments were miserable. Those moments were so dear. 

Type 2 treasure.

We tried to find the trailhead for a paved trail that would accommodate a stroller. Instead we wound up at the coast where the never-ending lake churned and writhed. Wind whipped our voices away and blew sand into our faces. A chorus of joy and misery rose up from our crew.

Two kids shrieked and ran along the beach into the fierce blowing – invincible, ebullient, baptized in wind and icy surf spray.

Two kids wailed in our arms – cold, runny-nosed, baptized in wind and icy surf spray.

My husband and I looked at each other – helpless, laughing, baptized in wind and icy surf spray.

Type 2 fun is like writing, or painting. You have to ~🧘Trust The Process 🧘🏾‍♂️~. As you start, you have the vague knowledge that whatever you’re about to do isn’t going to work. In the middle, it looks like shit. 

But you keep going. You keep smoothing on colors and dicking around with words. You keep hiking through mosquitoes. You proceed to place the order for chicken tenders even though your one-year-old is throwing forks at other restaurant patrons. 

Your persistence is a prayer. A manifesting. A trust in a greater power that by the end of this crapshoot, something beautiful will exist.

We can tell it’s a bad idea within a yard of walking. The trail we’ve found is deep with squelching mud. Trampled brush along the edges indicate that intrepid explorers before us have tried to make it. We are watchful for the bones of these explorers, forever trapped by the sticky mud, but don’t see any.

“I don’t mind the mud!” sings our oldest, happy to be out of the car and up to her ankles in the stuff.

“Me neither!” sings our second, who has never cared about anything messy.

Our 3-year-old cares deeply, as evidenced by his refusal to be set down. I hold him in burning arms while trying to trek around the worst patches. 

The baby squints against branches while his dad carries him on his shoulders. We still hadn’t found the paved trail, unless the paved trail had somehow flooded under eight inches of mud.

“This…” my husband says, “is not working.”

“Yes it is!” I counter brightly. I can feel the crazy in my eyes.

Type 2 fun is, I think, the culprit behind the much-maligned “Enjoy every moment” advice doled out at baby showers. I used to chafe at those words – who could enjoy this? But I think I understand better now. 

“Every moment is a part of it,” these elders are telling us, from years down the road. “Don’t avoid the hard ones.” 

They haven’t forgotten the work, the stress, the impossibility of it all; but they can see the full picture now: the families and the memories they’ve built. 

“Someday,” they are saying, “You will have enjoyed every moment.” 

The sun came out during our second day in the park. We had finally found the elusive paved trail and the dunes were beautiful. We almost felt happy.

Then, suddenly, the sun blinked out and it legit started hailing on us. 

My husband grabbed the baby’s stroller and our oldest’s hand, I grabbed the middle two and off we went, racing back toward the trailhead. The boys resisted beside me, screaming, screaming, screaming. Small ice pieces smacked us in the face. 

It was torture.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

“Wha’s fam-lee?” asked our 3-year-old a few days ago.

He’s in a stage where he asks “Wha’s [insert whatever word he just heard here]” constantly, not really caring about the answer. Even so, our family is non-traditional, so answering felt important.

“Family are… people who…” 

Are what? People who what? Live together? No. Are related? No.

“Family are people who work hard,” I ventured, “To love each other.” 

I thought about the windy beach, the mud debacle, the ice in our faces. I thought about the years of tantrums and sleepless nights. I thought about over-sugared holidays and underprepared school mornings. I thought about my own parents, and my husband’s, still showing up like the cavalry when we struggle; how stressed they seem when they host family gatherings; how they do it anyway, time and again. I thought about how my husband and I hug in the middle of arguments. About holding kids through weeks of viruses. About bell hooks and care. About all the love. So much love. 

Much of it looks like hard work in the moment. Much of it looks like joy in the rearview.