Why I Hate Camping
Labor Day weekend is coming. No doubt a few brave souls will venture out one last time to camp sites before that giant vacuum called school sucks their children into never-never land.
We tried camping once when we had four children ages seven and under. I hope I never have to do it again. Here’s why, in a letter to my sister, the smart one who never camped in her life.
We are at a campsite in southern Michigan, setting up by a lake. Our friends, the veteran campers who also have four small children, assured us this was the best way to take a family vacation. It would be cheap, they said. We would love it, they said. We could afford that. So, we borrowed an old canvas tent and here we are.
I received quite an awakening last night. It rained and the tent leaked right over my head. My pillow AND sleeping bag are wet, and there is no where to hang them to dry, because it’s still raining.
I think the ground under our tent is the site of ancient volcanic rock formations. They dig into your hips, right through the sleeping bag. However, I will endure this in the spirit of adventure. Our friends keep assuring us this week will be fun. Are we having fun yet?
This is the second day of all-day rain. I think the mosquitoes qualify as the state bird. So far all we have been able to do with these eight small children is sit around a picnic table under a tarp and watch it rain while getting splashed by the drips. The kids are getting restless. I had one nerve left and it got drenched, along with the wet sleeping bag.
Our friend’s wife, the adventurous one, keeps saying this is great. I wonder what she would look like with a bag of marshmallows stuffed in her mouth.
That’s it. We’re coming to see you, wet blankets included. Make room in your nice, warm, comfortable home and your clean shower. And if I ever agree to go camping again, please drive me to the nearest hospital.
What about you? Any camping experiences you would like to share? Feel free to comment below.