Camping, True Stories.

There was more than one moment when I wondered if I ever wanted to go camping again, at least with the party I was with. Camping as a mother is so different than camping as a child, as a teenager,or as a couple. There seems to be no time to even recognize where you are, you are so busy trying to keep the tent from looking like a tornado just went through it, keeping a three year old entertained and from killing himself by jumping off the big rocks into the fire pit, and the dogs from whining and barfing and peeing in the tent on the beds, which by the way, are already covered in dirt, bugs and dog hair. I tried to not think about this as I crawled into my sleeping bag each night, but it was hard to ignore.
The quietness, the peacefulness that I associate with camping, only came in the evenings as the sky turned that brilliant blue, the trees dark and black against it. Joey and I would sit around the campfire once the doggies and Ethan were in bed, and take deep breaths as we watched the sky's colors fade, getting darker and darker, the trees eventually disappearing against their backdrop. Then the stars. Delightful stars, like glitter, like everything childlike, twinkling, moving slowly, and completely incomprehensible.
We'd read by the lantern out loud together, something we have not done in what seems like years. The fire would pop and crackle, it's flame memorizing and warm on my shins. Then it would start to get cold so we'd put more sticks on it and if we weren't too tired, another big log, which to me meant another thirty minutes, at least, before we'd crawl into the tent with the rest of our very demanding, yet lovable family.
By the morning, we'd all be in Joey and my's sleeping bags, which we zippered together. All the warm bodies made turning over, something I am doing countless times a night now that I am very pregnant, more than a little difficult. At first I was cautious, not wanting to break Riley's leg or smother Fiebe or wake up Ethan, but after the first night of not sleeping at all, I decided they'd move outta my big belly way if I was really hurting them. They did, sleepily and whimpering.
I'd wake up each morning feeling like a sledgehammer just whacked my back. Our sleeping pads, which are supposed to hold air, don't anymore. Ethan woke, like usual, like a beam of sunshine, where I was more like a shipwrecked survivor. He'd be begging me for Captain Crunch while I was barely getting my cold cold contacts into my smokey eyes with my dirty fingers.
The mornings were brilliant, quiet and cold. We'd make coffee with the coffee press and eat Costco muffins and fruit. The milk was especially cold on our cereal. It was delicious.