Every year around this time I grow resentment out of my ear hairs and a little bit out of my extra bushy eye brows too. But it's only because I have to pull myself up to the crawl space and dig out the sleeping pads, sleeping bags, tent, crate of plates, spoons, plates, water jugs, Coleman lanterns, tarps. I do laundry, make sure we have towels, swim suits, life jackets, sandals, sneakers, frisbees, footballs, baseball gloves. I make sure we have bug spray, sunscreen, hand sanitizer, Dr. Bronner's, matches, sponges, the Swiss Army knife. I cook my world famous meatballs, home made spaghetti sauce, world famous salsa, and world famous chocolate chip cookies. I pack breakfasts, lunches, snacks, drinks- for dogs too. I pack bikes, helmets, tire pump. I clean house for house sitter.
And Paul Bunyan gets in the car and drives us to the campsite.
Nah, that's not exactly correct. But pretty close.
And all of that, all of that for dirty feet and nasty toenails.
And loaders to trip over.
And dirty soggy towels.
And wet clutter.
And beer, which only makes a certain person have to pee in the night more often, which only wakes up everyone in the tent when the zipper zips, which only makes for one crabby mommy and not to mention the fact that your campsite smells like a urinal.
And wet stinky dogs.
And dogs that are unnaturally freaky.
And sometimes obnoxiously loud children, mostly boys who like to hold their penises and pee right next to where you're sitting and then they put their sticks in it and swing them in the air and then put them in the fire only to burn their legs and eye balls and hair.
And sometimes an obstinate daughter who won't let me take a picture of her.
And so then I have to sneak photos and subsequently have many of her beautiful back and the gorgeous views.
And then there are the loons that howl in the night, their wails reverberating off shorelines.
And the pack of ravens caw, caw, cawing at 6 a.m.
And of course Mom has to pack those tiny boxes of Kellog's sugar cereal because she had them as a little girl when she went camping, and then an hour later after eating POPS or Cocoa Puffs or Honey Smacks (which actually used to be called SUGAR Smacks) everyone is still hungry and needing more CRAP to eat.
And, of course, no one wants a banana or an apple.
But you already know what I'm going to say...right? Because you've read this all before. You already know that I can find the positive in the soggy? The gold mine of reconnection. The gold medal of doing nothing.
When the clamoring is actually okay.
And the massaging of greasy heads is acceptable.
Except maybe not the feet.
But the general love in the air, swarming around heads like bugs on shit, is palpable.
But you can see that I don't think camping is all that bad. I really do love it. I especially love my little dust pan and broom, specifically engineered for sweeping sand out of my tent, which would have inevitably ended up in my sleeping bag.
Especially because I get to spend time with her as she supports me in my bid for a positive attitude.
Especially because I get to witness shit like this.