Mean Old Yellow Mike

We decided to go camping.

When I say we, I mean me, the four boys, my mom and her dog Maggie, my sister (DP) and her daughter (whom the boys call baby Backup), my sister in law GM and her baby, Jr, whom you have all ready met in previous entries, and GM’s cousin, whom the boys call Africa. It’s a play on her name.

That means we have four adults, one teenager, six kids and one dog.

We were quite the sight, I am sure.

Getting set up is an adventure. Not one of us girls is good at setting up tents, we have two to set up. My husband was making sure our camper was as solid as could be (four boys in and out, you really want to be sure you are well set up), GM and DP were staying in a cabin and my mom stays with Maggie in the 1953 Vacationette my Dad found and it’s just the cutest little set up, especially so since he hauls it around with his 1949 Panel, that is turquoise trimmed out so they really stand out. The boys are so excited they are jumping up and down, shrieking, riding their bikes, asking for food and literally being a blur. I am already figuring out where to put the coffee and wondering if I can sneak a nap, packing up has worn me out and the last part of the morning when my husband took the boys to church so I could finish packing had me literally running thru the house and yard.

Slowly, night falls. My Dad and my husband leave and it’s just us girls. All four boys beg to go bed in the tent and S1 especially has a hard time with this. This is HIS tent to share with S2 and views the ‘little boys’ as an intrusion.

Because this moma doesn’t like that idea, I say all the boys can sleep in the tent.

S1 knows not to mess with moma – well, sometimes.

I was certain S4 would never make it very long and would change his mind. I was pretty sure S3 would crawl in the camper too.

I had hard time falling asleep that night, listening for them to wake up……

At three in the morning, S4 beginnings screaming “Daddy, shoot it!”

This is not a way to wake up.

He has stumbled out bed and is fumbling with the zipper screaming bloody murder. I get him, his blanket and his cow in the camper and the tent zipped back up. He curls up on the couch muttering “my Daddy will shoot you!” and falls right back to sleep.

In the morning, we get the meaning of this whole experience.

The night before we left, my husbands brother (who has no kids) that in the campgrounds there lurks a scary animal man named Yellow Mike with a skunk head and a turkey butt.

S4 was sure his Daddy would shoot the thing that was lurking in his dreams.

For the whole week we heard about mean old Yellow Mike.

I was nearly cursing my brother in law.

Except, it gives me this story to tell you.

S4 was riding his bike or running or jumping or something and he fell. He scuffed his arm but didn’t notice and since we were running four Band-Aids a day I figured I wouldn’t mention it.

A few days later, he realized it. “Moma! What is this?” he cried as he held up is elbow.

“Oh, just an old owie. It’s fine. No blood.” (because if there is blood, we need Band-Aids)

“I know how I getted this, Moma. That mean old Yellow Mike, he snuck up and he grabbed me and I threw him on the ground and scared him and he runned off and I got this little owie. But it’s fine now.” He jumped up from the beach towel and ran off to play, problems all solved.