The hours to pack, plan, and drive (four hours!)…the lugging of stuff (oh so much stuff!) to the house from the truck…from the truck to the campsite.
The setting up of the tent. I really hate setting up the tent. Why won’t the tent poles ever stick together when you are trying to thread them through their nylon tube? Target tents, be damned.
There’s Night One when poor little Reed starts to vomit in the tent in the middle of the night. Me, screaming frantically to my husband. Help! Help! (He of course is irritated at me for “overreacting” until he catches on.) There we are, chucking our most precious little boy,head first, out into the cold, dark of night onto the dirt to vomit elsewhere.
But we are too late.
The night continues like this, until morning, when poor Reed seems empty…a little off kilter but generally pumped to go fishing again.
Then there’s Night Two. I am exhausted from an afternoon of naughty, partially sick toddler antics…the very same naughty toddler who spent too much time bouncing on the air bed (I warned him!), which subsequently deflates every two hours and must be re-inflated on the same schedule. All. Night. Long.
The cycle repeats. We awake. Laughing at the ridiculous of it all. Repack. I hate the tent poles even more. Everything goes back into the truck, albeit dirtier than when we arrived, seeming to have expanded two-fold with dust alone.
And here I sit. Surrounded by loads of laundry. Mountains of dishes. Grime. Reed is so worn out that he put himself to bed at 6:30. I assure you, that never happens. I stink. Like, really stink.
Camping is so much work, but it is worth it. And not just because I brought my knitting along and was able to sneak in a couple hours here and there.
There’s something about the stars at night. So bright. And watching Reed delight in all that is new and different from the monotony of home. The rocks to climb (be careful!)…the fish to pursue.