On Monday Calvin and Matthew left to go camping. The rest of us stayed home—we remembered camping. Matthew doesn’t. The last time he went camping, he wasn’t actually born. I was six months pregnant with him and then eight months when we went camping again. This clearly explains why I haven’t been camping in thirteen years. After all, when you’re beached-whale-pregnant and the air mattress springs a leak during the middle of the night, diapers are changed in a tent, and you yell at your toddler “Stop eating dirt,” camping becomes associated with misery.
Matt called me. He told me they set up the tent, hiked, cooked hot dogs over an open fire, and saw beautiful vistas. I’m starting to remember why we used to go camping in the first place. I can’t wait to see the pictures they’re taking.