Premenapause Might Not be the Time to Start Camping...

There must be something wrong with me, as I am a person who sees vacation as something to be endured, and if it is enjoyed, it is a bonus. After days of packing, two 12-hour days of working and one day of driving, I'm toast by the time we get to our destination. Camping. There are two reasons for camping. One is for it's own sake. We are supposed to get sufficiently bored and thereby be forced to commune with nature, our own family, and board games. The second reason to camp, for lack of funds for a hotel, is so we have a relatively cheap place to stay while we run around seeing the sights or hang at the beach. (However it will take a couple of years to balance the cost of the camper. ) Well, there's a third, and that is for the sake of the children. Therefore most pleasure gained is of a vicarious nature.

Day one. Misty rain. 8 am. I'm already at my breaking point. Not a good sign. My boys' voices seem to be reverberating throughout the campground. I fear our friend in the next campsite will awaken, even though his music kept us up 'til 2 am. After several pleas for quiet, I, the psychotherapist, with years of experience helping others to raise their kids, cannot think of anything more creative to hiss between my teeth other than: “shut UUUUUPPPPPPPP!” I feel a pang of shame as I hear myself. Then I hiss it again. Louder this time. The only thing that gives me a shread of comfort is that minutes ago I heard a woman admonishing her kids in the bathroom. I thought she was a bit harsh. Now I feel as if I'm her soulmate. Then I enter the camper, which yesterday looked rather roomy and comfortable, is a veritable tossed salad of clothing, toiletries, books, cooking utensils and people. I spend half an hour looking for my toothbrush and can't remember in which compartment I stuffed the towels. By 11 we are off to the beach. Just in time for everyone to get hypoglycemic. I prefer cold and rain to searing heat, but even two coats and a snuggie cannot keep me warm. I can't believe I brought TWO books. What was I thinking? I settle myself on the beach to read about parenting rather than partaking in it. Fortunately the book is about kids under pressure, and says that kids should be left to their own devices to play with minimal adult input. Perfect choice! Thank goodness I didn't grab something off the shelf that touted consistency and routine. The kids have a ball. So does Russ. I have a pretty good time and would like to be warm, but who's complaining. I'm READING!!!!!!!

Day two: 1 am. I wake with a start to a strange noise, and I know instantly what it is, even before I hear the whining from the other child. It's the sound of Johnny puking. All over the sheets. We all get up, lights come on (thank goodness for lights) and assess the sheets as terminal. Also the mattress. I put a towel down and turn the mattress over and discover that the flip side is waterproof. Nice to know that now – for later. The upshot of the night of puking is that I get to spend the whole afternoon reading in the laundromat. About parenting. While not parenting. It turns out that the kids in Taiwan and Korea have to go to cram schools after regular school. They'll either self-destruct or take over the world. It will be interesting to see how it turns out. Meanwhile I'd sign my kids up for Chinese classes if there were any around here, but the whole point of the book is not to.

Day three , four, five, six, seven:
The weather gets better, I have most of a warm-but-not-hot day reading on the beach, we do a little crabbing, have a glorious dinner with relatives, have a campfire and smores. The rest is a blur. I remain tired, but plod along appreciating Russ for just feeding me coffee every four hours and not complaining that I look as if I'm about to faint at any moment. He even suggests I take a nap, which I attempt, but then I martyrishly get up to play mini-golf, to which I have previously been given an invitation to abstain by my dutiful husband. But motherly guilt has a hold on me.

On the day we leave, unbelievably, I have energy. Thank goodness because we have to pack up. I'm even in a fairly good mood. After fumbling with the trailer hitch for an hour and finally lubricating it with margerine, and then losing the brake-light plug and driving to the next town, fearing a collision, to buy a new one, we arrive at the Maine diner just before all our blood-sugars plummet to the center of the earth. On the way home we discuss future camping trips. Maybe to the state parks, or Arcadia. How romantic. Maybe we'll use some of the board games I bought.