Going camping always makes me question my sanity.
Let's pack up so much stuff we have to attach a rack to our trailer hitch and put a cargo carrier on top of the car just to hold everything, and leave our strong, sturdy home for a windblown tarp in the wilderness.
We'll forgo our comfortable beds for air mattresses that have a 90% chance of going flat during the night.
We won't shower for days and the kids will use up all my baby wipes cleaning their filthy feet.
We'll do our business in a stinky outhouse that has peeping chipmunks lurking inside.
The kids will be cranky from lack of sleep and will spend all day alternating between shrieking with playful fun and sobbing that one of their siblings has wronged them.
It will take half a day to unpack our stuff and settle into our campsite. And then once we're really comfortable, we'll pack it all up again and go home.
No wonder my parents never took us camping.
But somehow, like a truly insane person, I keep doing it. I tell Mr. Brown Eyes, "Let's go camping," like it's the easiest form of vacation, involving very little planning or preparation.
Maybe someday I'll learn.
But I kind of hope that I don't.
Somehow the bad parts always seem to fade to the back of our minds, and all we remember is that camping is beautiful and fun, and let's go all the time.
Ok, maybe not ALL the time.
I do love sleeping in my bed.
The Brown-Eyed Girl