On Friday, The Husband decided we were going camping this weekend. On Friday, specifically. Like 4 hours before he got home from work.
I am not a fan of camping. Heck, I’m not a fan of the great outdoors. You’ll probably never actually see me with makeup, but girlfriend understands the importance of bathing. Even with these crazy kids, I find the 90 seconds needed to scrape the scum off my body every day.
So spending the night in a muggy tent with three smelly men and a dog and no hope of a shower beyond a bird bath in the sink of the less than sparkly clean bathroom with the rice cooker plugged in under the vanity? Not. So. Much. But my husband? He comes by his persistence honestly. If he says we are going camping, there is nothing left to do than to pack the bug spray, the 600 thread count sheets for the sleeping pads and pray to God they’ll be enough light when you show up so you can at least read up to the swim suit fashion page in the latest US Weekly that arrived 10 minutes before you left because God knew your children didn’t want to be fatherless.
His desire to go camping? Because it was the first weekend without rain in nearly a month and a half. Bless his heart for not saying the first “nice” weekend in a month and a half because 94 degrees does not represent “nice” weather in my book. The park? Perpetually full. The man had no worries. Nothing says having faith in your decision like driving 130 miles one way to take a shot that there will be a spot at the campground available.
Oh, Baby, there were THREE spots left. Two on 40 degree slopes and one in between a family of 7 and 2 tents which never seemed occupied the entire time we were there.
The ride was relatively quiet. Quiet because The Boys decided to sleep the entire trip. I can’t think of better preparation for a camping adventure than having your 3 year old who gave up naps altogether about 8 months ago sleep for 2 1/2 hours (from 5:30 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.) on the way. The Baby was sporting a fever and cried until I set up his crate in the tent. I know. Who brings a pack-n-play on a camping trip? Um, people who tried to leave it home the last time and had a baby screeching like a banshee for 9 hours.
It was about 9 o’clock when The Boy started to really wake up. It was right about the time my husband handed me a stick to use to roast marshmallows. A stick that I spent the next 30 minutes envisioning as the recipient of numerous bathroom breaks by all manner of dogs and boys.
TB: MomMomMomMomMOM!!! CAN I HAVE A S’MORE?
Have you met my child? His inside voice? Doesn’t exist. I would like to apologize to anyone who went camping the other night within 2 miles of us whose purpose was to commune with nature. The Boy? He scared nature away.
Two hours of flashlight play, nearly falling into the fire 4 times, giving the dog lots of water, flashing the light in his brother’s face two times, breaking the lantern, eating a half a box of graham crackers, repeatedly asking to pee outside and being “shushed” 9 trillion times, he finally went to sleep.
And then we were UP WITH THE SUN. A mere 12 hours after arriving, I was forced to put The Boys into the truck because they were being so damn loud. I could hear them yelling in the truck. I peeked in the window to find them eating the last of the Altoids, slamming back my leftover Dr. Pepper and chewing gum. I hurriedly took the tent down as The Husband loaded up the 9 camping chairs he had positioned around the fire. 6:59 a.m.
The horn blew.
Again and again and again. I broke into a dead run and flung myself into the truck, yanking a feisty 3 year old off the horn.
TB: Mom. You didn’t say we couldn’t blow the horn.
No. No, I didn’t.
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