We did that. It was AWESOME. We loved it.
Well, I loved it. My big kid loved it. My husband liked it, and my baby hated it. But, I loved it. That's what matters.
My husband, who had been off that day, had been strongly encouraged by some smart, amazing girl to go early and set up our campsite. You know, before dark.
Unfortunately, he did not follow that advice, so the first hour was spent in a somewhat frantic setting-up of tents and fire pits and picnic tables lather.
Once all that was complete, and we were able to turn our cars' headlights off, we settled into the enjoyment of nature. nature.
We poked sticks through hot dogs and ate hot dogs, and then we poked those sticks through marshmallows and ate marshmallows, except the baby, who announced that he was going to eat chips, and then he ate chips.
We drank root beer and juice boxes.
And then, my Husband noticed a fatty arbunkle raccoon hanging around under our picnic table, you know, where our feet were. tee hee. How cute.
So later on, after the neighbor-campers freaked out because they thought there was a wild hog in the brush (true story) (also true, mating raccoons sound like wild hogs) (also true, it is impossible to tell if raccoons are mating or fighting), and my husband went over to their site to help them fix their tent* and to convince them they could sleep in that tent, in that it was very, very unlikely that the noises were wild hogs, we settled in for the night.
The kids and I went to "bed" in our tents, enjoying the generally crickety camping sounds, while my Husband wasted our fire wood. (When I asked him why - WHY? - he burnt up all our firewood, he at first said to keep the raccoons at bay but finally admitted, he just likes fire.)
And then, hey, howdy, Mr. Raccoon returned, prompting me to sing every word of Rocky Raccoon.
And then we all finally went to seleep, my husband included, and then - and then - there was this big THUMP.
My husband had helped himself to another rootbeer, you know, from the cooler, and so perhaps had not shut said cooler tight, and hey, look! Rocky helped himself to our hotdogs, the little (but oh so cute) bastard!
So my husband reached out the tent flap, and securely shut the top of the cooler, and we went back to sleep.
THUMP.
Rocky and FIVE OF HIS BROTHERS/BEST FRIENDS/RACCOON SLUT FRIENDS were hanging, enjoying my grapes (PURPLE GRAPES!).
Little bastards.
We didn't get much sleep that night.
The next day was about a long run, a nature hike, time to play on the playgrounds, etc. The only critters that day were a couple of very cute rat snakes.
Camping is amazing. Raccoons are shifty little five-fingered bastards.
*My husband never was a boy scout, but oh glory, he should have been, in that he is the King of Being Helpful to People Who Have Broken Things. He gave away some strings that go to our tent, in this process, which vexed me. Just saying. If you go camping - tent camping - you are responsible for your own gd tent and my husband should NOT jeopardize our waterproofiness so you can rest comfortably. Dammit.
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