How I Spent My Weekend

Another Mr. C original

The first time I really camped was with Bee.  Five months into our relationship, we packed his pickup with all his camping gear, a duffel bag filled with wood, and a cooler of food, then set off for a two-night trip north in the mountains.

I was a little nervous.  My prior camping experience consisted of a night at the Girl Scouts Council (where there were bathrooms handy . . . because the scout leaders wisely recognized the disaster implicit with three hundred ten-year-old girls in a small space) and a week in college winter-camping for one of my Kinesiology credits.  That would be the week where my period decided to make an unexpected appearance.  In full force.

It was a rather strained week.


When I told one of my friends that Bee was taking me camping for the first time, she sighed longingly.  "Ah, those were the days: camping when you were still dating and all in-love with each other.  Nothing could go wrong that you wouldn't just laugh about, cuddled together in the tent, playing card games and talking."

Her voice took on an edge.  "Just wait until you're married," she warned.  "When you're no longer in the 'Honeymoon' phase, camping turns into a trial, if you let it.  You blame your partner for the forgotten flashlight and the crummy weather; all you do is bitch about the rain while you're stuck next to him all evening in your tiny tent with nothing to do.  But, hey," she continued, "have fun!"

And we did have fun.  I was surprised how enjoyable it was to live in small packages instead of bulk.  To spend that kind of uninterrupted time with someone, getting to know each other better.  To feel closer to my un-showered, un-soaped, un-refrigerated roots.

We camped many times over the next few years.  I got better at it, learning what was truly necessary to bring (earplugs; damn owls!) and what was just taking up space (shampoo).  And, despite some set-backs, I enjoyed it every time; even after we were married.

But . . . then we had a baby.  And 'roughing-it' was just not enjoyable anymore.

How the hell did Sacagawea do it?

When Mr. C was a year old, we spent our one night of camping trying to keep him from crawling in the dirt and eating old cigarette butts.  And, when he was two years old, we spent a sleepless night re-covering him every hour as he sleep-wiggled out of our frosty sleeping bags and then woke up at four a.m. to happily screech with the birds.

Dare we try to camp this year, now that he is three?

Oh, we dared.

Not only did we dare, but we saw our dare and raised it: we took along S.B. and a friend.  SO, we packed a toddler and two sixteen-year-olds in the back seat of my little Mazda, crammed the trunk with just the basic bare necessities, wedged Bee's oh-so-necessary camp chairs between the seats and the doors, and set off for the hour-and-a-half drive to a hotsprings pool.

THEN we hit road construction.

THEN we ran into a lightening storm.

THEN we found out the first campsite we picked was $30 a night; that being on top of the $10 per person swimming fee.

THEN we realized we'd omitted our mosquito-repellent in our efforts to pack light.

BUT . . .

. . . we had a great time!  The teenagers amused each other and were great with the toddler; Mr. C was so excited about everything, yet perfectly content to spend an hour throwing rocks in the river; and Bee and I had mentally lowered the bar so much prior to setting out that things could only go up from there.  We made do with what we had, enjoyed our tiny cooler of food, went swimming before and after dinner, and didn't stress ourselves out trying to force our regular routine on Mr. C.  He fell asleep in my lap by the campfire while the boys told stories, and slept between Bee and me until 7:30 the next morning.

We came home just over twenty-four hours after we'd set out, happy, satisfied, and with our marriage still intact.

Now that's what I call progress.

God, I'm Awesome