Happy Camper

Kiddo and Hubs love camping. They are constantly trying to get me out in a tent. Outdoors. With no bathroom. With no shower. They expect me to dig a hole to do my business, sleep among the bugs and snakes, and eat food charred over an open fire. To add to the insanity, they think I will enjoy it.

 

This is as rough as I want it to get.

 

To them I say a resounding NO. I do not camp. For one thing, I have a bladder the size of a thimble. I wake at least once a night for the bathroom. I am not going out in nature to do its bidding. There are things out there, you know. Like the outdoors. 

Another reason is that I am old and decrepit. Sleeping anywhere but on a pillow-top mattress makes my joints hurt. I am a delicate flower that needs lots of soft cushion. I should be wrapped in lots of fluffy blankets, much like a rare Ming vase. Treat me like the fragile thing of beauty that I am, or I will hurt you. 

Finally, coffee...or the lack thereof. I have yet to meet a tent with an outlet that will let me plug in my coffee maker. Have you seen me without coffee in the morning?

 

This is after my first cup.

No camping for me. I think that’s a good thing. The two manly types in my life can bond in their own primitive, behind-bush-squatting, bug-swatting way. I’ll sit this one out, thank you very much. 

Kiddo and Hubs love camping so much that when weather allows, they sleep in our backyard. Yes, as soon as overnight temps dip into the mid- to low-60s, the boys are out there in the tent each and every night, hunkered down in the wilderness between our house and the trampoline. I send the two off with a smile, goodnight kisses, and bug spray. Then I grab a bottle of wine, some chicken wings, and watch Netflix in all my indoor, prissy girl glory. 

It’s still quite warm for that yet. Summer has not yet quit southeast Georgia, because summer doesn’t pay any attention to my calendar which says it’s time to go. Summer is an inconsiderate guest. It stays long after the white wine and chips have been consumed and we’re dropping hints that football season has started. 

Even my wild and woolly husband has his limits when it comes to being primitive. Summer will be here until November, making him a somewhat civilized, indoor-loving creature right up until Thanksgiving. Camping, and his vain attempts to lure me into it, is still weeks away.

That has not stopped Kiddo in his mania for the experience. This past summer he decided that his new bed, bought just last year, was simply too comfortable.

I went into his room one night this past July to tuck him in. I stopped in surprise to find my youngling with all his linens, blankets, and pillows on the floor. On top of those, he had laid out his sleeping bag, which he was happily snuggled inside of.

“This is my new bed. I am camping,” he informed me.  

Okay. I could handle that, even though it meant bending those decrepit joints quite a bit to deliver goodnight kisses. I figured it was a passing phase that would be over in a few days. 

Yet here we are at the end of September, and Kiddo is still ‘camping’ on the floor. What’s more, he’s got a play tent set up in his bedroom now. Each night I not only have to kneel down to wish the child pleasant dreams, but I have to crawl into a small enclosure to boot. I sound like a water tower full of Rice Krispies with all the snap, crackle, and popping. Meanwhile, a perfectly good bed sits next to this makeshift camp, reminding me of how much money I spent on it just to be ignored. 

“Why don’t you sleep in your bed?” I ask. I look at it wistfully, think how much easier it is to sit on its edge as I send my child into dreamland.

“No. Sleep in the tent,” Kiddo replies. He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Sleep in the bed, indeed. Mommy is apparently a lunatic for suggesting such a thing. He’s probably considering putting me in an institution for my madness. 

That’s fine. Institutions have beds and indoor plumbing. It’s still better than sleeping outdoors.