Camping = Relaxing?

My husband adores camping – the fresh air; tasty grilled meals; exploring the woods; seeing the stars; toasted marshmallows on the camp fire. He is not, however, good at preparing for camping. That has somehow become my exclusive domain. Lucky me.

We had not been camping for quite a while – taking a less-than-two year old out into the forest is not my idea of a good time (although taking a two year old into the wilderness is no picnic either – but more on that later), and I refused to sleep on the ground while pregnant (since there was a distinct possibility that I would not have been able to get up from the ground then). I knew our tent was somewhere up in the attic, but finding it was an adventure in itself (although my son and I did discover lots of other treasures hiding up the attic – who knew we had a whole box of playdoh molds hiding up there?). And then all the other things we needed for camping – flashlights (batteries drained long ago, of course), sleeping bags (needed washing, since something seemed to be growing inside), grill (still filled with ashes from last summer), ice chest (ditto on the something growing inside), folding chairs (home to an entire army of spiders, all of which became very ticked off at being displaced), charcoal & lighter fluid, food for grilling, swimsuits, towels, sunscreen, industrial strength bug spray, dog’s license (we never go camping without our Nanny Dog – who would watch the kids otherwise?), special dog food since Nanny Dog refuses to touch his regular food while on “vacation”, and on and on and on. Fitting it into the car required lots of swearing, squishing, and a small dose of magic – and sliding up my seat so that the only place for my feet was somewhere over my ears. But somehow, I made it all fit in.

And where was my dearly beloved spouse during all the swearing, squishing, and small dose of magic time? Downloading songs. Downloading. Songs. Two hours of downloading. Songs. Good thing “Janie’s Got a Gun” was not on the playlist, or that would have been the headline in the paper once I discovered how he was using his time. More swearing ensued, and although I was tempted, I did not squish my husband in with the other camping stuff in the trunk (there was no room).

Off we all went to camping, with the Nanny Dog standing guard in the middle of the front seat. Unpacking the car when we arrived at the campsite brought on another round of swearing when I saw what the squishing had done.

The kids were in heaven at the campsite, discovering pine cones (which make really good missiles and hand grenades), where the last campers had built their campfire (ashes make great camouflage makeup), and delighting in the sandy soil (a giant sandbox!). My son was put in charge of gathering kindling for the fire. No need to worry, future campers – every single possible flammable article – every leaf, twig and dry bit of grass -- has been removed from that campsite, and it fed our campfire that night. My two year old busied herself with digging as large a trench as possible in the sand, and storing all the excess sand in her hair.

The next morning, I discovered what I had forgotten to pack during the swearing/squishing/small dose of magic session – clean clothes for the kids. Normally, that would not be too much of a problem, but with one child having taken on the role of High Priest to the god of fire and reeking of smoke, and the other carrying an entire sand pit in her hair and the contents of several mud puddles on her pants, it was a bit of a smelly and grubby ride back home. I’m not even going to mention what the dog got into, but it was not a bed of roses.

Once we arrived home, mountains of dirty, smelly laundry waited for me. How could so many things get so dirty and so stinky when we were only gone one night?

So, now you understand why I remain silent while my husband raves about how relaxing camping is. And now he’s talking about going camping again next weekend. Maybe I will have him download “Janie’s Got a Gun.”