One of the things I like most about having kids is the opportunity to try new things. I try very hard not to live vicariously through them, but sometimes going on a field trip takes me to a place I’ve never been before, a new sport introduces me to something I haven’t played before, and of course, all of the activities bring me into contact with a whole new group of parents, some of whom are almost as crazy as we are. Recently, though, one of their commitments challenged me, and at the end of the day, I have to say, I’m really glad my kids dragged me into this.

A few months ago, the Boy Scout troop decided to participate in Wreaths Across America. If you’re not familiar with the efforts of this organization, their goal is to place a wreath on as many veterans’ graves across the country as they can. Our troop planned to participate in the event at the Fort Indiantown Gap cemetery.

While I’ve never served in any branch of the military, my father and several of my uncles did, as well as my grandfather, and many great-uncles, and even a great-aunt. I have nothing but respect for those who served, and I thought that participating in this event would be a really fine way to remember those who served, especially around the holiday season.

However, as we got closer to Christmas, I just didn’t know how we were going to give up an entire day of holiday preparations. When the weather forecast turned gloomy, I seriously considered canning the whole activity. The kids were already going to be doing manual labor, running the wreaths around the cemetery. Adding miserable, cold, wet weather to the mix, and I was sure it would be a day of misery and whining. I was not too proud of how I was feeling, and knew our servicemen and women deserved better. So, I resolved that no matter what, we would be going.

The morning of the event dawned. It was overcast, chilly, and the threat of rain was hanging over us. I repeatedly warned the kids to dress appropriately. About five minutes before we had to leave, E discovered that her rain boots didn’t fit. Gee, it’s too bad someone didn’t ask them to get their stuff ready the night before, when we had time to do something about that. We hadn’t even left the driveway and the pouting was starting. I feared we were in for a very long day.

Hoping to lighten their moods and distract them from the weather, which was getting worse the closer we got to Fort Indiantown Gap, I put a Christmas movie on in the back seat, and at least everyone was giggling by the time we pulled into the parking lot. As we waited in line for the shuttle bus, the skies opened, and it started to pour. As we clomped up the steps to the school bus that was taking us to the cemetery, I noticed E’s soggy, soggy sneakers. I took one last look at our car and decided there was no turning back.

The kids had a minor kerfuffle over who had to sit with a stranger on the bus, and E started to take inventory of how soaked she was. I had already given one speech about how they’d better behave, and I shot a few daggered looks in their direction when the whining started. The dread was starting to build. There was no way my kids were going to get through this entire day and maintain the courtesy that was required.

As we stood in the cold rain, waiting for the ceremony to start, there was the requisite fidgeting, and poking, and, “Mom, he breathed on me.”

Finally, the riderless horse walked in and the ceremony started. And, just like that, a change came over my kids. Not just my kids, but all the kids that were in attendance. For the next 45 minutes, they stood, quietly, listening to the guest speakers. They stood respectfully, as Gold Star families were introduced. There was no more fighting, no more whining, just their best behavior.

When we were dismissed from the ceremony to begin laying wreaths, we had to slog across the cemetery, and there wasn’t one squeak of dissent, only an eagerness to finally start laying the wreaths. Watching each of my kids carefully wipe off a veteran’s grave, and place the wreath, adjusting the bow to look just right, and taking a moment to speak the vet’s name, I don’t know that I’ve ever been prouder of them. A, the student of history, was taking a long time, lingering over each grave. Later, I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was imagining what war they fought in, and where they might have seen service.

As we moved from section to section, G kept stopping to fix bows on wreaths that he didn’t feel were quite right. E, who was soggy up to her knees by now, trotted along briskly, hoping to lay as many wreaths as she could.

That day, at that cemetery, thousands of volunteers laid over 42,000 wreaths. Many, many more were laid all over the country. I am truly grateful for the opportunity to have participated in this event with my kids. I’m even more grateful that for several hours, they focused on what was important, and showed the respect and care that the situation merited.

At the end of the day, we were faced with a long wait for another shuttle bus, or what looked to be about a 2-mile walk back to the car. I was relieved when they unanimously agreed to hoof it. On our way back, they talked about the names they’d read and the different units and wars that they’d seen on the grave markers.

When we got back to the car and started peeling off our soaking wet socks and shoes, they all asked me if we were going to do this again next year. I answered their question with my own question, “do you want to?” The answer was overwhelmingly “yes.” E added her caveat that I would have to buy her new boots before next year, and we all agreed that this is definitely a tradition that we want to continue.

Thank you to all those who have served and who will serve, and know that your sacrifices are appreciated, even by those crazy kids.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.