Camping

So the Boy Scouts are off for the weekend . . . along with a massive supply train.

Gracious me, I am fairly sure we emptied half the attic, a third of the shed, and a quarter of the refrigerator and schlepped it all across the backyard and into the Scout trailer. It's all labelled DOLIN  in black Sharpie, so hopefully a sizable chunk will make the return trip on Sunday.

Except that I am blocking out the return trip.

A vast armada of muddy, sandy, smokey gear entering my front door? Not what I want to dwell on at this precise moment and time. Not when it just left the back door.

They had better have fun.

For all the time and money we invest for forty-eight hours in the wilderness, they had better have fun, and lots of it.

Over the years, I've made many a passing comment to Dave along the lines of  "Lots of work for something I don't get to do."

My whining is lighthearted, really, because I love watching my boys go off with their Dad to hike and canoe and, I don't know what else, whittle or geo-cache or water ski. But I do tend to let the record reflect that I spend a whole lot of time on things I don't get to do.

So Dave called my bet this afternoon.

Apparently some of the Moms -- and by that I actually mean one really outdoorsy Mom -- may come up Saturday and camp for the night.

Do I stay or do I go?

It's the logistic that I find daunting -- another trip to the attic, the shed, the store. Cots, sleeping bags, good chocolate, Tylenol PM, contraband wine hidden in a water bottle with "Be Prepared" emblazoned on it.

But to quote Kelle Hampton in yesterday's post: Sometimes you need to build the damn ship.

(This may become my motto).

And John and Ainsey would  l-o-v-e  it.