Growing up in Northern Wisconsin (my childhood) is sooooo different from growing up in Eastern Iowa (my girls' childhoods). There are very few lakes in Iowa, and then there's the trees, or lack of them here.
So, every great once in a while, it's nice to be able to go to a park - a place where some genius Iowans decided to let a few shade trees grow around a tiny body of water. Of course this meant we would crash on my parents who were camping at Wapsipinicon Park, which has a very luxurious name that can only be pronounced correctly while under the influence of nitrous oxide.
Oh look, here's me and the family looking like total slimeballs:
That's a camping requirement... check the rule book.
And here's Mike and the girls (can you guess who's terrified?) at the top of a huge metal tower overlooking the valley below, just as a storm gathered. Would you like your toddler grilled or electrified? Because I was feeling a little anxious about lightning. Kristin wasn't happy either.
When we finally climbed - or were carried like Emma - down from the tower, Kristin clapped and said Do it again? Do it again?
Later that night we decided to have a campfire. Mom laid down logs around the fire, or as I refer to them: the logs of death. Two reasons: Mom was convincing all the kids that they would surely die if they went between the logs and the fire, and while it was a good idea in theory, the girls were much more likely to die after tripping over the logs and launching themselves into the firepit.
When it was bedtime, the girls screamed that they didn't want to go to bed. I mean,
screeeeaaammmed! And it wasn't any short-lived event. They kept going, and going, and going. I did everything I could. I hugged, I scolded, I did everything. Then I decided
to hell with it and began dressing them as they screamed. All the while, the other campers thought I was torturing my children.
When I finally got them to lay down calmly with no toys and no screaming through a series of song-singing and toy-disappearing, I sat at the edge of their bed. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was the worst bedtime experience I'd ever had. The campground was silent except for a few quiet voices.
No more than two minutes later, some asshole two campers down lit off a shitload of firecrackers. Bangbangbangbangbang... bangbangbangbangbang... again and again. The girls sat straight up in bed and resumed screaming. It was all I could do to keep from crying, so I leaned over and hugged all three as they screamed. Luckily, they were exhausted and laid back down. They didn't move... all. night. long.
This morning, we huddled around the campfire so we didn't freeze to death. Emma did her trademark shimmy and shake that looks like some sort of tribal dance. It only has one interpretation: I'm cold, mommy!
After the excitement of camping and with a few tears, the girls were more than ready to return home to their lives as harmonica-playing princesses.
