Allow me to start this post by saying that I do not like camping. I’ve tried very hard to find some redeeming qualities about it, but the “fresh air” brings bugs, the “family bonding time” results in fighting over whether that sound was the wind or a grizzly bear, and the “saving money” part ultimately ends up costing a fortune in the items I find necessary to make the whole experience even halfway bearable.
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That said, I am not TOTALLY unreasonable, so when my husband asked if we could take my daughter camping for the weekend, I mulled it over for quite some time before saying…
Hell no. Are you kidding me? Have you lost your mind, man? We can camp in the living room. You’re lucky I even agreed to that. Don’t ask me for anything else ever again in life.
So there we were, post-dinnertime and ready to DO THIS. First problem: I had brought our air pump, which had been sitting unused in our basement for at least ten years, to my parents’ house only two days earlier to blow up B’s inflatable pool. Feeling particularly “camping-like,” we improvised and used a hair dryer to inflate our air mattress (did you actually think we’d sleep in sleeping bags on the floor? Haha good one!), which didn’t work nearly as well as a pump would have, but there was at least the semblance of inflation occurring.
We went on a very “camping-esque” walk in the woods, where my dear husband thought it would be funny if he and B – who had walked ahead of me – shut off the only flashlight we had, precisely when I was approaching the entrance of the wetlands. He almost didn’t survive that one, but I held it together for B’s sake because, well, I was CAMPING WOMAN and STRONG LIKE BULL.
We eventually returned. It felt like at least two hours but upon looking at the clock, it turned out to be only 9 minutes. I baked s’mores in the oven (which was the closest I was coming to a real firepit), and set up our “tent” made of fitted sheets that extended from our wooden easel to my computer chair. We read a book under the sheets, put on our star tap light, and said goodnight at around 10pm, which sounds late to the majority of normal folks but is pretty much business as usual for us when it comes to bedtime.
B hopped around between us for a while, tossed and turned, talked to herself, sang some songs, pointed out the stars, recounted some stories, and drank about two gallons of water, which she carefully consumed in mini sips that required her to get back up, jump off the air mattress (which was already mostly on the floor thanks to our hair dryer capabilities), drink and jump back on, with just enough time to get back up and do it all over again.
This continued for approximately two hours. That’s when I started making threats.
Me: “B, enough talking. It’s time to go to sleep.”
B: “OK, Mommy. La la la la.”
Me: “What did you just say?”
B: “I said, ‘La la la la.'”
Me: “If you utter another word, this will be the last time we ever do indoor camping!”
B: “Sounds good, Mommy. La la la la.”
It’s during times like these when I’m both grateful and enraged that my husband is a calm person. I allowed him to try to reason with her.
Him: “B, it’s time to go to sleep now, OK? Let’s try to close our eyes.”
B: “But Daddy, I don’t want to sleep here. I want to sleep in my bed upstairs.”
Him: “You don’t want to sleep with Mommy and Daddy tonight? It’s a special night!”
B: “No, Daddy. Please take me upstairs. I don’t like camping and I don’t like sleeping with Mommy and Daddy.”
And there you have it. At midnight, we all marched upstairs, B to her room and us to ours. She fell asleep within two seconds and didn’t wake up until 9:30 the next morning, when she promptly recounted to me (as if I wasn’t there) that, “Mommy, I went camping last night!”
If that’s what we’re calling camping from now on, maybe there IS some hope for me…