Code Green…the Full Monty

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for brain transplant

I admit it.  I am a sucker for that puppy dog face and those big blue eyes.  I am also highly susceptible to guilt: “Well, I guess if you are an adult, you don’t have to keep your word.”  So yes, after bailing out of Camp Wilderness Friday night, I told my husband we had to camp out all night across the street tonight. 

This time Dr. Hubby tossed the big tent, mosquito surround net,  two hammocks, two cots with cushions, three chairs, four sleeping bags, flashlights, lanterns, tarps, ice chests and food in the back of the pick-up and hauled it across the street early in the afternoon.  He pushed wood up for another fire, mowed the surrounding area, and then set up the camp.

Then we walked over there.   The kids began staking claim to the hammock, the cot, and the sleeping bag each wanted.   I must say, though, the hammock rodeo was rather entertaining.  For the seven-year-old, it took three tries before he managed stay on the hammock without being thrown out.  Once he got it in, he had to negotiate with the ten-teen for his blanket and pillow.

Later, when it was my turn in the hammock, both kids held onto the sides so I wouldn’t get thrown.  I guess they didn’t want a trip to the emergency room to interfere with their camping trip.  It was rather enjoyable in a painful-nylon-cords-cutting-into-your-back sort of way.  The seven-year-old pushed my hammock back and worth and scratched my head to keep me happy.  “Look, I’m multi-tasking,” he announced to anybody within ear shot.   The ten-teen, not to be outdone, pushed harder resulting in more hammock rodeo.  I managed to avoid being thrown by getting a leg on firm ground on either side of the hammock resulting in the first ever hammock wedgie.

By dark-thirty and after chasing frogs, hunting for snakes, and with no TV or radio available, everybody went to bed.  Dr. Hubby opted for his folding lounge chair by the fire, once he figured out how to make the chair recline without doing a back flip.  The ten-teen held out for the hammock.   The seven-year-old and I chose the cushioned cot inside the tent with the mosquito net closed. “This is just the best ever!” came from the sleepy seven-year-old.  The coyotes began their evening concert after all was quiet;  the seven-year-old pulled his cot next to mine and the teen-teen joined us in the tent, only all cots were taken so she had to sleep on the tent floor.  After her academy award performance playing the long- suffering, unappreciated older sister forced to sleep on the hard, hard ground so her baby brother could have a cushioned cot, she finally settled down.

At 3a.m. she made an encore performance only this time she was sound asleep.  I climbed over two cots, a sleeping child, and three flashlights to guide her “off stage” and gave her my cot, more guilt.   I had had my seven hours of sleep which normally comes between 11p.m. and 6 a.m. but tonight had occurred between 9:30 and 3a.m. I grabbed a blanket and joined hubby by the camp fire.

“Have you gotten any sleep?” I asked. 

“Who can sleep with all the dogs howling?”

 “I didn’t hear any dogs, just the third act of “Les Miserables”. What time is it?”

  “3:30.”

“Good, only three hours till daylight.”

We sat staring at the fire and sharing memories of past campouts and gatherings, enjoying the opportunity to have an uninterrupted conversation.

“What time is it now?”

“3:35”

“Good, only two hours and 25 minutes till daylight.”

The exact moment the sun broke over the horizon and I had managed to doze off, the seven-year-old awoke and announced “Wake up!  It’s morning.  Can we have S’mores for breakfast?”

“No, we are going to McDonald’s NOW! I need coffee,”

Ok, so ours is not the traditional camping out family experience, but then again, no one has ever accused us of being traditional.