We Went Camping....Getting There

As I type this post to you, I am hunkered down in a camper with no internet available at all. I am technologically cut off. Because I am vacationing.

But I did bring my wonderful present from my super intelligent hubby, my little accer laptop. And with it I am pounding out a few camping highlights for you.

Only a few. And it's hard to choose just a few.

Really.

Our camping stories could be a reality show. I'm not even exaggerating.

We camp in an old camper, that is large enough to cram all six of us into it. But usually it is just me and the dog. My boys have left me for a tent. They love the tent. My hubby works and doesn't get any time off but Sunday's and an occasional Saturday. So I have a queen sized bed and a stocked fridge and a tiny little bathroom that has a toilet that works. It's rough to have that time alone, I tell ya.

But getting to the campground. Oh my. If anyone has any tips at all to getting a never fully clean house clean enough to feel one can leave it behind plus clean a camper so that you can trash it by the time you pack enough stuff for six people to live in it for five or so days without ever leaving the camp ground (this includes every bike, every tonka truck, every tractor, etc that the boys own on top off bikes for everyone to ride INSDIE the camper) all while celebrating a son's birthday and taking care of another puking son and do with with joy and calmness, call me. I need to know your secret. Because I loose it. I blow my top. I stress. It. Is. Not. Fun. EVER. And that is putting it ever so lightly.

Then, me, with four boys and two dogs and no hubby pull a camper loaded to the roof behind my John Deere license plated suburban behind my Dad and Mom who have a 1949 restored Panel truck pulling the cutest ever little 1953 Vacionette camper that turns everyone's head and gets lots of thumbs up. Behind me is GM, my sister in law, in my brothers red pick up with the camo windows.

No one notices us. Just Dad.

Which is fine. Because I have to concentrate on driving. Because I have four boys asking me “are we there yet?' and two dogs sure they need to give me directions as I haul a swaying camper down some of the narrowest, curviest hilliest roads in the county. The roads we take, they don't have names. Seriously. I always check. I say “we go down the road that only one vehicle can fit on and there is a swamp on either side and the road is paved but it should just be gravel” and the people say “oh, I didn't know people used that road” and I say “what's it called?” and no one knows.

But we arrive. My Dad reminds me to breathe. I literally peel my fingers from the steering wheel, we jack the camper up to make it somewhat level, the boys empty a camper in such a way you would think they were finding long lost always longed for treasured presents with every sand filled tonka truck and bike. It's sorta like a boy version of Mary Poppins magic carpet bag, if that makes any sense.

And anyone who has the camping lots next to us, well, they stare at us. And wish they could blink themselves back to their quiet home.

Let the camping fun begin.