do not feed the bears

We went to Yellowstone last summer. A year later, the thing my kids remember best about the trip, other than being surrounded in our car by a whole herd of bison, is the signs everywhere that read "Do not feed the bears." They thought the bear-proof garbage cans were really cool, and were appropriately terrified when their grandparents told them that a bear had recently attacked a camper in the canyon where they live. This summer, when we went to Bryce Canyon, they knew all about how we shouldn't feed the woodchucks and squirrels because it would teach them to be dependent on humans for their food supply. Still, Isaac tossed fruit loops at the squirrel in the lodge dining room and thought it was hysterical when the squirrel ran over and gobbled them up.

Now that I'm doing a better job of keeping the floors clean, Maren has lost her easy access to stray cheerios, goldfish, and potentially lethal magnetic toys. So, like the bears in Yellowstone, she's adapting and getting smarter. Her latest trick is dumping over all of the wastebaskets in our house (so gross, I know) so she can rifle through the contents for: a) discarded food, b) paper to scrunch up and put in her mouth, or c) something more disgusting than that. Yesterday when Eddie came home from work, he asked me why all of the wastebaskets were sitting on desks and tables. We're just practicing the domestic equivalent of hanging our camping food up in trees instead of inside our tents.

As much as I adore Miss Maren, I'm hoping this stage passes soon. I never liked camping all that much.