I was just chatting on Facebook with a dear friend about the Easter Bunny. Somehow I’ve managed to virtually ignore him, creepy though he is. Somehow we’ve dodged the Easter Bunny AND the Tooth Fairy.  I already explained my Easter Bunny issues. The tooth fairy thing is pure laziness on my part. I saw that the children were coming out of nowhere. I have enough math prowess to realize that four kids x a million teeth in each mouth equals 4 million teeth. And then I started thinking about Orthodontia. Well, no thanks on paying them to spit out their teeth. And no thanks on scary little unexplained critters creeping in, taking the tooth, and replacing it with a buck. And who drove up the cost of that anyway? I always got a quarter. Now it’s a dollar, and that’s if you’re a cheapskate. Did I say that ignoring the Tooth Fairy was laziness? Now that I am typing, it appears to be completely intentional. I guess I have Tooth Fairy issues also.  It’s probably a good thing I do, because the whole “losing teeth” process has been a wreck in this house from.the.beginning. The afternoon AG lost his first tooth was traumatic enough to write down. So, as shocked as you may be by this, I typed out a REALLY LONG story about it. In a smack down between the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, I wonder who would win?
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How many of you are first children? The oldest. The experiment in your parents’ search for the perfect combination of discipline, nurturing, instruction, and adventure? Well, I’m here to tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry they messed you up. On behalf of parents everywhere, I apologize for bungling the moments that should have been sacred, for spanking when I should have hugged, for hugging when I should have spanked, for glaring when I should have laughed, and for losing things that can never be recovered. And on behalf of parents everywhere, I can tell you in all sincerity that they really did try to do it right. And here’s my story.

Several weeks ago, AG showed up with a loose tooth. It was appropriately the same tooth that first appeared in his head when he was four months old. And appropriately that tooth would exit the world as silently and mysteriously as it first appeared more than 5 years ago. This loose tooth was a matter of great pride for the boy. He wiggled it, displayed it, and spoke of it often. He was looking forward to the day when that tooth would become a breezeway to his gullet–a trophy of sorts. It didn’t seem to be progressing very quickly, so I stopped reaching into his mouth to try it out myself. Until last Wednesday. It was a crisp, November afternoon and the other two children were sleeping. A friend was doing laundry and studying inside while AG and I played ball in the back yard together. He laughed about something and I noticed his tooth was noticeably different. So I reached in and this time, the looseness was shocking. That tooth fell forward at the pressure of one finger and felt as if it would fall out in my hand. So I called my mom, who loves to pull teeth (she was the neighborhood tooth fairy in my childhood days) and scheduled a pulling for 5:15 on their way to dinner. AG was unaware of this plan. It’s just better that way with him. He’s what you might call anxious. When my parents showed up, he proudly showed them his loose tooth and attempted to go about his business. At that point, I tried my best to do a quick “wegottapullthistoothbeforeitfallsoutandweloseitoryouswallowit” speech, followed immediately by a capture-and-yank operation. Had we actually gotten the tooth on the first yank, this would have been a perfect plan. But that little puppy was more stubborn than it looked and it took four yanks to commandeer it. By the fourth pull — and mind you, we were out in the driveway — I began to glance furtively around for undercover reps for the Department of Children and Families. He cried. He bit down on a Kleenex to clot the empty space in his mouth. It was over and fine. And I walked inside with the tooth. I set it on the entry way table while I got AG and Mamasboy settled on the bed to watch a movie. AG was still sniffling a little and Mamasboy was just following after us blindly. Then, I picked up that tooth, walked into the kitchen to throw something away, and with eyes as big as a pizza pan, watched that tiny little enameled fleck of love fly out of my grasp and into the kitchen trash. It was one of those slow motion “nooooooo” kind of moments. You watch it happen in slow motion but somehow cannot interrupt or retard the speed at which it is actually happening. And then you look up in real time and say to whomever is unlucky enough to be listening, “I just threw my first child’s first tooth into a soggy can of garbage. Now that’s just bad parenting.”

The tooth was in the kitchen trash now. The friend doing laundry was looking at me from the big brown chair. Beloved, (still an infant) was asleep in her upstairs bedroom. AG and Mamasboy were blissfully unaware of this latest snag. And the phone was ringing. Ignoring all of that, I leaned over that trash can where I spent the next 90 minutes of my life. I craned my neck and strained my eyes and spotted the tiny baby tooth wedged between the empty Miracle Whip jar and the side of the trashcan. That’ll teach me to recycle. This is going to be tricky, I thought as I went in after that tooth. In retrospect, it’s easy to see that I should have tried anything but the reach-and-grab. Reach in with some duct tape and draw it out with adhesive. Go in with tweezers. Sit the trashcan aside and wait for Todd to come home. Anything. But I reached in for that tooth and that’s the last I saw of it. It slipped beyond my line of sight and took a journey into refuse that I was forced to follow. Like a homicide detective, I removed trash from that trash bag piece by piece, peeling back each layer as Melissa attempted to continue studying just a few feet away. But as the minutes passed without success, my heart rate increased, my hair became fluffier, my tone became strained, and Melissa got up and asked for a flashlight. Now there were two people combing through garbage. Oh, I think I see the tooth. No, that’s just the morning grits. OK, I think I have it. Nope. Feta cheese. Did you know that even the inside of a broken pretzel looks like a human tooth? It does. The previous night’s Beef Burgundy did not make this any more pleasant, I can assure you. (Incidentally, it was this same beef burgundy that had murdered my cell phone a couple of weeks prior to this…)

By this point, I was beginning to stress over the kids walking in on the scene or the baby waking up. I kept glancing at my watch and wondering how Bible class was going to fit into this covert operation. I now had the trash can between my knees like a full term baby. My hair was worse than anything I’ve ever seen; just an explosion of chaos. I was taking the occasional break to stand up and whisper, “you idiot” under my breath to myself. And all the removed trash was strewn out on every horizontal surface in the kitchen. All counter tops were employed in the operation and half of the kitchen table. No biggie. Just the places we prepare and eat our food. This project outlasted Melissa, who badly wanted to help but had to return to the dorms, craving a return to anything that felt remotely normal. The operation continued throughout the microwaved dinners I placed in front of the boys. What are you doing, Mama? Just looking for something important, boys. Don’t mind the dissected diapers. Don’t touch. Eat your macaroni and cheese.

At 6:55, I gave up. And with 5 minutes to work with, we all changed clothes and went to church, leaving the garbage to further collect bacteria and resigning myself to the idea that I was probably never going to see that tooth again.

Strangely enough, AG never asked to see or hold his tooth. He never asked about the tooth fairy. We decided not to even get into the whole tooth fairy thing. AG is scared of his own shadow. He’s scared of firefighters. I just didn’t think he was going to be excited about some invisible fairy sneaking in and reaching under his pillow as he slept. But a dollar appeared on his floor next to his bed, as a reward for the memory of that tooth. And that was that. All I have to show for it is a can full of rearranged trash and this blog post.

Chapter 3

I haven’t locked my keys in my car in such a long time. A very, very long time. I’ve never locked my keys in my car in the middle of nowhere.

I’d like to tell you that I really handled this like a Champion of Calm Thinking.

But I can’t tell you that.

I panicked. I called Todd asking why he’d locked the car before he drove away. I had no answer to his question of why the keys were on the seat. I called my dad panicking even further. I spouted things like why me and stink in a bucket (I could have just said port-o-let…same thing). My middle children were watching this unfold. Of greater concern to them was the fact that their mom was about to check into Crazy Town. Keys? Eh. Mom going nuts? Um, that’s a problem.

After ranting on the phone to my dad for a few moments, he talked me away from the ledge and talked me into going down to the campfire to locate a wire hanger. I was pretty sure we could unlock it if there was a wire hanger in the camp.

There wasn’t.

There was, however, a smores skewer and a couple of dudes who know how to break into a vehicle in nothing flat.

Ten minutes after locating the dudes, a hammer, and the skewer, I was clutching my keys to my heart and handing my oldest boy his prized marshmallow shooter. Peace of mind was slow to return, but it began to creep back in. Gradually. [Sidebar: The Marshmallow Shooter was not the reason I needed to get into my car. There were a lot of essential items locked up for the night. We were going to need those. I may have mental lapses, but I’m not so attached to the PVC marshmallow gun.]

By this point, it was after 10 p.m. AG was not having anything to do with campfire ghost stories. Everyone needed a last stop at the port-o-potty. It was time to just accept our losses and hit the tent to decompress. I did head down to the fire briefly to say a heartfelt and humble thank you for the people who had pulled together to save me. And then we all walked back to the tent. Home sweet tent. It was a lengthy process trying to get everyone clean underwear and clean teeth. But we managed the backwoods version of both and climbed into our sleeping bags. AG was on the outskirts of the tent, watching Alvin and the Chipmunks on his iPod. Beloved was next to him, hunkered down in a brand new, orange sleeping  bag. I had had to talk her out of the Jr. sized Tinkerbell bag and I am so glad I fought that battle. Disney. Don’t even get me started. For half the price I got a larger, plusher, warmer sleeping bag. Tinkerbell, schminkerbell. Then there was me and mamasboy. 4 happy campers lined up in a euphoric row. We were all so happy to just be flat-out finally. I don’t think AG stopped a single time all day, for anything. He was going at 100% all day long. His neck was sunburned. The rest of us were tired, too. We said a prayer together, told a quick story, and in less than 15 minutes, we left the train whistles, cobwebs, non-flushing toilets, and key crises behind us and slipped into the slumber of our lives. I didn’t move all night. I slept like a well-trained baby. And because I DO learn from my foibles, I had reset my alarm for 7:20 and we slept until it went off.

At 7:20 Sunday morning, that alarm did indeed go off. And at that precise moment, there were no less than 3 of us dying to use the bathroom. But it was still too chilly and damp to want to march down the hill to the you-know-what. When ALL other conditions are perfect, one can perhaps talk themselves into such atrocities. But when it is dark and damp outside, one begins to create other solutions. And that again opened me up to an opportunity for significant regret. There was a water bottle at the door of the tent. It was empty. It was also small. Normally, we tote the typical 16.9 oz bottles. This trip we toted a smaller 12 ounces. Don’t ask me why. I guess I wasn’t thinking of them as a multi-purpose bottle at the purchase point. Go ahead and think what you will. You can even say it out loud. This is a public blog and this is horrific information. But it is what it is and I had been through a lot with those stand-up sewage tanks. So I helped with bottle facilitation and Mamasboy did what he needed to do…about 13.5 ounces worth. It was so dark in the tent that we didn’t know we had exceeded the maximum 12 ounces until it was upon us. And both of us reacted the exact same way in the exact same moment. “Ohhhhhh…” But after that, he proceeded to cry and lament his station in life. I did not, though, at this point, I could have, I assure you. I tried to comfort him. We have clean underwear to change into. The weekend is over. We made it. All is well. None of that really worked. But a new voice piped in to take our minds off of it.

“I need to go, too, Mama,” AG said. Hmm. Well, as I’ve previously stated, I try not to make the same heinous mistake twice. I certainly don’t make the same one in the span of 5 minutes. So I unzipped the tent, used the keys that were not locked in the car, and retrieved an empty Gatorade bottle from the back seat. That’s 24 ounces of awesome. There were no issues with this bathroom stall.

By 8:30, our car was packed and we were dressed for church. Todd had been asked to say a few words from the Bible, so we walked down to the campfire and read from Psalm 73. Todd talked about integrity…about doing the right thing even if it doesn’t benefit you. Why does it seem that good people suffer? Why do evil people seem to have a gravy train to ride on? I don’t know. David didn’t know either. But He had God. And so do I. Always. All the mistakes in the world won’t erase that truth from my mind.

And that was the end of the weekend. I know I’ve painted a picture of utter fiasco and a mom who hates camping. Nothing could be further from the truth. There were a lot of things that went completely backwards. And there were things that made me cringe and bristle. But there were also sweet moments of a child reaching up to squeeze my hand on the 3 minute walk. And there were glances and smiles exchanged in a tent by the glow of a flashlight. And there were strange little conversations while sitting cross legged in a camp chair. And there was Merry Christmas dish soap that had all of us smelling like a freshly washed platter in December.  And there was no television. And there were Orion and the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. And 45 horrific little s’more cookers trying to pass off their charred marshmallow remains on unsuspecting adults so they could start over and do it right. And there were piggy back rides that were much more fun for the rider than the piggy. And there were games of Cops and Robbers after dark by flashlight.

Aristotle once said that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The sum of the parts had some problems. The whole was altogether good.

I wonder if Aristotle ever used a port-o-potty. Maybe that’s all he used…

Chapter 2

It was now about lunchtime at the Boggy Bottom Ranch. The clear April sunshine was filtering through the sycamore trees like a personal message from heaven. It was beautiful. It was also beginning to get hot. About this time, we were told to head over to the Pavilion to do a couple of the boys’ activities. There was a wide path that we had seen, but hadn’t taken. This, we were told, was a 3 minute walk. This had to be where those famous “hot showers” could be found.

Let’s address the 3 minute walk comment. Since the weekend, I have tried to tally up the things that would have to be in place for that walk to be 3 minutes. I could sprint, full-speed, which I did once. That almost caused a heart-attack and couldn’t be repeated more than once. I could be 9 feet tall, with the stride of a gazelle, and wear Shape-Ups. But as a regular, semi-fit person, this was NOT a 3-minute walk. And if you put a monkey on your back (Sister Squishypants), you can pretty much double your time from long to super crazy long.

Once we made that long walk over, there were ammo bags to make, marshmallow shooters to assemble, and fishing to do. By this time, Todd had arrived with the girls. They came running for me like something out of a 1950s romance movie. It was sweet. For one precise second. Then the whining started. It became clear from this point that this campout was not designed for 3 and 4 year old primadonnas. We only had 2 fishing poles, but there were four kids. The boys needed to be fishing. The girls apparently had that same need. So they cried about it. A lot. When all was said and done, there were five fish and 1 very big, very mean snapping turtle caught by our family. We managed to free the turtle without touching him. Good thing. He was out for blood. The fish were all thrown back that day. I don’t even think they were real. They were all about 6 inches long, very Pottery-Barn-Kids-looking. I think they were mechanical. But either way, they felt real to the touch and we threw them all back. What will Pottery Barn come up with next? That crazy Pottery Barn…

The next section on the Camping SAT was that Mamasboy opted out of the Marshmallow PVC Gun Project. He “didn’t want one.” I don’t know if that decision was prompted by laziness or momentary lack of desire, but he opted out. That was okay with me. But it should be noted here that being Mamasboy is a hard job. It’s not easy to be him. And sometimes it’s not easy being me, either. We are both a little whacked. When the War of the Baby Marshmallows started on the playground 2 hours later, he had a sudden reversal of that opt-out decision. But it was much too late for that. The war had begun. He didn’t have a shooter. He buried his head in my lap and lamented being him. I was back and forth between compassion and tough love when a sweet boy named Henry walked up.

“What’s wrong?” Henry asked. “He doesn’t have any ammo?”

“Actually, he doesn’t have a gun,” I answered. Or ammo, really. But without the gun, the ammo is just a taste squish of sugar in your teeth. Mmm.

“Oh,” Henry said, and dug down into his pocket. “I have a little one. My own personal secret shooter.” And he held out his hand to us. In his hand was a 4-inch piece of PVC pipe. One straight, small piece, unconnected. Simple. He held his pipe up close to his mouth and said, “You just load the ammo at the end and shoot. Want it?” To my very great surprise, Mamasboy accepted the gift and smiled through stale tears. “Here. Take some ammo.” He dug into his bag and handed us 4 marshmallows and then ran off. I have a fond place in my heart for that kid, I can tell you. It’s not typical for a 9-year-old boy to notice a hurting child, temporarily step out of a marshmallow war to ask why the child is crying, and then to meet the need at hand. That’s not normal. Thanks, Henry. You did a good thing that day.

The afternoon waned on. In the large pavilion there was a soda machine with Coke Zero, Sprite, Powerade of some blue variety, Orange Soda, Coke, and Diet Coke. I helped myself to at least 8 free Coke Zero cups. It was a tiny blast of cold carbonation that took the edge off the 3 minute walk. At one point, Mamasboy wanted to make his own mixture. So he hit each of those flavors one time, then said he needed some ice. Annnddd then he dropped that drink down into the ice and colored all those beautiful cubes like a snow cone from the circus. I felt sorry for the next 12 people to want ice. Really sorry about that. Really.  Sorry.

There was a segment of the day called “Movie Making.” In that activity, each den had to work together to come up with a premise for a movie. Once they had a thin plot/idea (please land heavily on the word ‘thin’), the leader in charge of the camera helped them build and film a 5-minute movie. When it came AG’s time to do this activity, his den of Bear Scouts was seated on the deck chatting about ideas.  How about attack of the giant zombie squid? Or attack of the alien baby? Oh, wait. Let’s do attack of the lego people bad guys! Then one kid, a very sweet, polite child said, “Let’s do a rescue of a cub scout who gets kidnapped at a campout!” All the others said, “Naaah.” That didn’t have attack in the title. They ended up making a movie about zombies killing everyone on the planet. I would link to the film, but it’s not uploaded to Youtube yet and I am not in possession of it. Use your imagination. That’s all you really need. The acting was as superb as the script.

By the time 6 o’clock rolled around, I was starting to think about Lupton’s barbecue an awful lot. But dinner was not until 7. So we rode it out in camp chairs as the sun beat down on us mercilessly. And then Beloved spoke up.

“I have to go poo poo,” she said. Really? Now? The long walk to other bathrooms was not an option here. Yes, really. So I bravely took her hand and we began the short walk to a disgusting demise. Squishypants needed to go too, so we all went together.

“Now,” I said to them both in a firm tone. “Don’t look down. Do not look down. Let’s just do our business and get out.” They had fear in their eyes. I must have had some too. Beloved’s eyes widened when she did what everyone has to do. She looked down. Oh, the unspeakable horrors. Did I say that already? Oh my. It wasn’t 1 minute before Beloved decided that she, in fact, did NOT need to go. It wasn’t worth it to her. I didn’t blame her. But there was still the baby to contend with and she needed to go. So I sat her up on the seat and waited for her to finish. The sweat poured down my face. The heat in that tiny cube of waste and disease was intense. There was no ventilation at all. Whose idea was that, I ask you? Who gathered up a board room of people and said, “I’ve got the greatest invention ever! A portable, non-flushing toilet! This is going to take the construction site world by storm! Let’s make sure there is NO AIR SOURCE to it, so the smell will be extra potent and the customers will want to die extra soon.” Who.thought.of.THAT? If I ever find them, I will kill them with baby marshmallows.

Either way, one girl used that toilet, the other girl refused. And it was dinner time. Finally. So as a family, we made that 3 minute walk down the path to the pavilion. This was at least my 8th time doing it that day. But at the end of this time, there was catered food waiting. In my right hand, I had a plastic bag containing what I’d need to shower myself and the boys after dinner. I had already told them to just expect it and not give me any choice words about it. If we were going to share a church pew with clean people the next morning, we were going to do that with our hair washed…with dish soap. Because that’s all I brought. But dish hair is better than port-o-potty hair. You know it’s true.

The meal was delicious. Delicious. It was even hot and not all catered meals are. I’m sure some of my appreciation came from having prepared none of it. But as far as food quality goes, it was HIGH.

Now it was time for the shower. Todd graciously offered to do the boys’ shower before heading back to town with Squishypants. Shortly thereafter, I did my own shower. Hot showers. Technically, yes. There were hot showers. But there were a few problems with them. (1) No one had used these showers in the last 18 months, which meant that there was a 3-inch layer of red clay on the bottom of the concrete shower. (2) There were a LOT of cob webs in there. No place to even rest a towel without taking an 8-legged friend back to your tent with you. (3) No water pressure adjustment. There was on…full blast. And there was off. That was it. (4) No drainage action from the drain. So in 3 minutes, you were standing in ankle-deep clay water.

At the end of it all, we were clean. But the process was a little like being flogged by the Gestapo.

Todd and Squishypants headed back to their car right after the showering fun. Sister Squishy wailed all the way down that path. She thought she was spending the night. She had picked out a sleeping bag and helped me pack up. What in the world? I felt terrible about that. It was a shock to her. But it had to happen this way, for about 15 different reasons. I now had the boys and Beloved for the night. Todd and SP would be back in the morning for break down.

Dark had descended upon Boggy Bottom. The mosquitoes were out in large clans. We were clean. We had washed any trace of repellent from our bodies with the dish soap we used. So we burned a few calories swatting.We won a few and lost more. When it was time to head back down the 3-minute path, the night was as black as the center of the earth. And because we had initially walked when it was still daylight, many of us had no flashlight. I know it will surprise you that I had dish soap, but no flashlight. I know.

It was dark. Very, very dark. Beloved was riding on my back. AG had linked his arm through mine and was trembling with fear. He is not a ghost stories, dark night kind of kid. Mamasboy was twirling like a boy in tights, having the time of his life and not the least bit concerned about my proximity to him. We walked back with a group. However many minutes later (not 3…), we emerged from the woods. My van was about 10 feet away. AG asked for his marshmallow gun. No problem, boy. Let me just get it for you.

The car was locked.
I went to the tent for my keys.
They weren’t in the tent.
I pointed a beam of light into my van, with panic mounting in my chest, and there they were.
There were my keys sitting on the driver’s seat.
No idea how they got there.

I just knew three things: (1) The keys were in the car. (2) The car was locked. (3) The only other set of keys was now back in town, 45 minutes away.

Great.
Stink.

To be continued…

My boy is a cub scout.
This makes me a scout mom.
I believe I have already shared that I am, in no way, smart enough to be a scout mom. There are badges, achievements, chips, pins, and even beads. I didn’t even know beads existed until I received an email about all the ones earned by other boys who have other moms who all seem to know what beads are and how to earn them. If I needed a bead, I would just go to a bead store and buy one. But who am I kidding? I will never need a bead.

I’m way off track already, which is very bad news, because there are stories to be told.

All year I’ve been dreading doing an official scout campout. The dread comes from several sources. (1) Lack of togetherness. I won’t continue to beat that horse. (2) Lack of control. I have issues with this. (3) Official things kinda just freak me out. It leaves a whole lot of space to mess it up. People who know me well, and know my children, know that I don’t like to pass up an opportunity for a gargantuanly proportioned catastrophic moment.

But the date was on the calendar for April 1-3 and it was the last chance to camp with them for the year. AG wanted to go, so we planned it. And in making the decision, while still sitting up on that fence, I heard two things that decided it for me: (1) Lupton’s Barbecue (owners of the Boggy Bottom Ranch) was catering Saturday night’s meal, (2) The leaders had confirmed that there were hot showers on the ranch. Alright, let’s do it. A nice hot meal on Saturday night and a shower. That sounded divine.

And then, last week. the rain set in. It was the kind of rain that makes the popcorn fall off my ceiling and gets kids into the duck and cover position for tornadoes. Crazy rain. I could not do much in the way of organizing my car or packing. I didn’t even want to get out to do the shopping. Friday was a mad dash to do everything. It was drying up. I shopped, I packed, I planned, and I threw everything into the car that one day. Then I dropped the girls to Todd for them to have some local fun together under the umbrella of technology (he had a deadline to meet) and the boys and I took off into the middle of nowhere. For real. It took like a year to get there. Really just an hour. But still.

On the way there, I was mentally thinking through what I had packed and what the scout list said to pack. A shovel was on there. A shovel? What for? Dead bodies that fall in the field of Boggy Bottoms? Burying cat carcasses? I still don’t know what the shovel was for. I saw some there, but don’t know what their employment was. I didn’t bring a shovel. Nor did I miss it. A lighter or matches. That seems important. Didn’t pack that. Dunderhead. So we had to stop on the way. Already I had forgotten a crucial item. While in Walgreens shopping for lighters, we bought some awkwardly packaged girl scout cookies in a sandwich baggies to support Relay for Life. I’m a total fan of the cause. I do think they could have come up with something less awkward than Mary Lou’s leftover Trefoils for 25 cents a bag. But who’m I to question it? I bought them and ate 10 on the way to the campsite. Thus began my slide into a very dark place.

As I made the rest of the 10,000 mile drive, lighter in hand, I had an inward little chat with myself. Think like a man, Missy. You can put up a tent on your own. You are up to this. This is going to be super awesome. And then I pulled into the site. There were already many, many tents up and most people were done and relaxing. There were dads and there were boys. There were no scared-looking moms on hand. Trying to appear that I had everything under control, I rolled down my window and spoke to Mr. Van Augen (names changed to protect the people I don’t hate).

“Can we set up anywhere?” I asked. That seemed like a good question. He answered yes, but offered no further input. My confidence was waning. “Um, do you have any advice for picking a site?” I asked. My cover was blown and I hadn’t even put the car in Park yet. He mentioned avoiding fire ant hills and trying to find shade. I got out and looked around and picked a spot that was perfect.

So far, so awesome.

I allowed Mamasboy to run willy nilly in the field, because truthfully his kind of help isn’t quite what I needed. But I got AG on the tent assembly task with me. He hung with me on this, helping me with tent poles and stakes. Running around with a hammer and hammering things that you could push with a finger. Finally, a rather sizable fella came over and offered his know-how and muscle. And though I could have done it on my own, he shaved about an hour of “huh” time off my instruction-reading process.  The tent was up.

I sat down in a camp chair to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Less than 14 seconds later, Mamasboy had to use the bathroom. And I mean he had to USE THE BATHROOM. Well, there are bathrooms with hot showers, so let’s just find those. I looked around as he danced and panicked.

And that’s when I saw them.
The bathrooms.
Mr. Van Augen had referred to where the bathrooms were in pointing out considerations for a site. He had pointed to the southeast corner of the field. Two gray and white port-o-lets sat side by side at the bottom of this field. The bathrooms. I needed about 25 minutes to fully digest this fact, but I didn’t have that kind of time. Mamasboy needed those bathrooms. Right then. So off we ran, to drop the first of many horrors into one of those portable, non-flushing toilets. Oh, the horror. Oh, the unspeakable horror. We were the first to use them.

The rest of that night was pretty pleasant. We pan fried some hot dogs over a camp stove. We ate. We chatted with a few people. On the way back from the trash can, I approached my neighbor just to my west.

“Hello!” I said, as friendly as you can imagine. “If we’re going to be neighbors, I might as well introduce myself. I’m Missy,” I said, and stuck my dorky little hand out. That was stupid. Why’d I say all of that? If we are going to be neighbors? This is a cub scout campout, you dufus. He had just taken a massive bite of grilled hamburger. When he cleared his gullet, he told me his name was James and his boy’s name was Jimmy. And that was that. That was all he said. We were practically best friends after that. I could hear happy little clarinets playing when he shot a look my direction.

That night, the boys and I hunkered down in our tent together and tried to stay warm. They fell asleep almost immediately. But every time I would get into that soft, fuzzy state of dozing, I would get shocked awake by a train whistle. Trains. Running. Out in the middle of nowhere. At 11:30 at night. What? It was surreal. But I confirmed with other sleepy parents the following morning. There were indeed MANY train whistles that occurred between 11-12 that night. I wasn’t just having a night terror.

It felt like I didn’t sleep at all that night. But I do believe I fell asleep just after midnight. And like 5 minutes later, my alarm was going off for my school morning routine. Oh, that’s just BRILLIANT. I forgot to reset my cell phone school alarm. So I woke up the boys and  half the campground at 6:20 on a dark Saturday morning. Beautiful.
So, we were up at 6:20 and down at the port-0-potty, ready to catch a disease, by 7. Nothing says wide open spaces like a port-o-let.

By 9 a.m., the activities were starting. We learned to cook quesadillas over a campfire, tie fancy knots, assemble and break down a tent (thanks for nothing, people. You’re 12 hours too late). We made marshmallow shooters from PVC pipe, made ammo bags to  hold the baby marshmallows, etc. When sitting with AG to help with the ammo bags, I was handed a some felt and a needle and yarn. AG looked at me, then the ladies running that table, and announced quite matter-of-factly to the ladies in charge, “She can’t sew.” Awesome.  I had a few choice things I thought up to say in response, but decided to just answer by totally rocking the ammo bag sewage like you have never seen. I made an ammo bag for Mamasboy. One of the Den Mothers made AG’s bag. Her bag fell apart 6 hours later. Mine is still holding baby marshmallows.

Who needs a thimble now? Huh?

To Be Continued…