As I lie on the hard surface in the tent, sweat dripping down my forehead, nausea from the camp food coupled with exhaustion and the constant stream of smoke from the bonfire. I worried about the two older boys and their cousins sleeping in mosquito netted hammocks between the trees. I felt like we had hung our children out like sausages for the bears breakfast. I couldn’t help but be nervous. I lay awake for hours, wide awake, painfully awake. And right around the time I fell asleep an raccoon started digging through the trash and the next hour was a series of Greg or his brother pacing with flashlights, watching the camp. Being sure that’s all that was out there and keeping them or it out of our stuff.
I decided camping makes no sense. People go out in the woods and try to make it as much like indoors as possible with all their fancy gadgets and pop-up tents.
And than it makes all the sense in the world.
Spending the day jumping in the gorgeous, cool, blue springs, being in the fresh air, letting kids be kids, be with their cousins. Campfires and stories. Seeing Keegan flip into the lake. And Tate and Asher too. Hours of catching fish with nets. And storing baby frogs in water bottles. How I love these boys and these days.
And so that is that. I have a love-hate relationship camping. I love the memories we have made. I would lay on the ground sweating, sick, and tired all over again to not miss out on a thing.
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