We leave for our annual camping trip tomorrow.
My friend Amanda and I leave our husbands at home and take our kids to the local KOA.
It is a tradition we have had for many years.
This year, however, there is something different:
We are taking my daughter Tessa’s boyfriend along, where he will be living for three days in a tent by our cabin.
Tessa is nearly 15.
I knew that if I did not want to spend three days putting down my book to ask her what the issue was with her face, him being invited was a requirement.
In order to get ready for this trip, as he is a vegetarian, I have had to coordinate with his mother on food he could maybe bring, and today when I spoke with her, not only had she already purchased all of our needed s’mores supplies, but she surprised me by laying out a laundry list of multiple delectable items she is preparing to cook from scratch to send him with to share.
I just sat there blinking.
This boy is clearly accustomed to camping in a luxury camper.
This boy has never once camped in an old army tent that smelled like skunk pee and metal the way I grew up. This is about to be a real eye-opening thing.
I sat silently as she talked about camp cots, and fancy fold-out cushions, and even mentioned udon noodles and a strainer.
She also offered to drive out his things in case we did not have space for all he will bring.
It’s not that I blame her for this level of involvement. She is a wonderful, doting mother.
She is the type that makes braided pie crust,
and whose hair glistens in the sun as she gathers fresh eggs.
It’s more that I am fascinated by that level of preparedness.
The energy level is what astounds me.
Clearly we are two different types of camping mothers.
For example: I am pretty sure we have used the same sponge for 10 years,
and I only *think* we will have sunscreen.
My entire plan for our time is to gesture towards where the cooler is sitting from whatever reclining chair I’m in while I’m reading.
I learned long ago not to bother with too many extras. Too much to pack. Too much to clean.
This is my one chance a year to let the kids live like sugar-strung-out, sleep deprived ferals wearing headlamps, while I think of, and do next to nothing.
My friend and I look forward in anticipation all year to the moment we can lay beside each other on beach chairs, and just shoot one another knowing looks on repeat.
It’s practically the whole point of the thing.
This mother’s talk of separate organic corn and walnut dips she had going were where my memory gets kind of fuzzy, because all I could think about in that moment was how,
while apparently other families use a highly organized camping system,
our family uses a giant blue tupperware full of odds and ends things we call “The Bin,” that we close up on the last day of camping, and then don’t ever look in or reopen until we are right back there camping again.
Our Camping Mary Poppin’s Bag of sorts.
The beauty is in the surprise of it! Reach in and pull out a mystery thing.
Our motto: If it’s not in the bin you don’t need it.
Want a swimsuit? Look in the bin.
A length of rope? Bin.
Salt? Extra shoes? Forgot your pillow? Binny Bin Bin;
And if you want something that’s not in there, well then, you’re probably
too in love with material things, which the Good Lord frowns upon, and so maybe you should consider this a kind of needed spiritual retreat.
Might I suggest you take a walk amongst the trees?
So, while this mother is hand-embroidering this boy’s monogram on his pillowcase with lavender scented string,
I will just be over here shoving things into the back of a pick-up truck with no cargo net, if you don’t mind me, showing up at camp looking like Fred Sanford, and shrugging on if we even have everything.
“I have a book.
I have a chair.
Here’s an apple in a knapsack.
Don’t get into an RV with a sign that says ‘Free Candy’ on the side.
Are we good? Good.
Then you can go play for three days.”
I view camping as being as close to being stripped of all excess as I can get.
It is a thing I fantasize over for the 362 days between trips: The nothingness of it.
I am not a camper who preps foil packets of Pinterest things.
I will take the corn dip,
and the walnut dip,
but please know –
If he tags along, this boy’s eyes are about to be OPENED to a whole new way of life:
A life where we perpetually wing it.
I am a teacher if I am anything.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
