Backyard Camping

"We'll roast marshmallows." they tried bribing me.

"I don't like marshmallows."

"That's weird, Mom. How 'bout we give you the comfortable bed?" they tried again.

"The bed in my bedroom is comfortable."

"Come on, Mom. It'll be fun!"

When I agreed to let the kids open the pop-up camper, I didn't know they planned on having me sleep out there with them. 

I used to love camping. Matt and I used to camp so often we could set up a camp sight - tent up, sleeping bags unrolled, fire going - in 10 min. flat. I loved the hiking, cooking over a fire, late-night star gazing. I had always assumed when we had children we would camp just as often. Then we had children. Camping became work and I became a worrywart.  Instead of hiking merrily through the woods, I began to see bears behind every tree, bears that might want to snack on one of my little ones. I worried someone would get lost. Instead of relaxing around the campfire, I spent time keeping little people from getting burned. We camped less and I grew out of practice. Now when the children wanted to camp they would take Daddy with them and I would stay home with whoever was the youngest at the time. Trouble was Daddy wasn't here. 

We had a camper now. We would be in the backyard instead of the woods. I was being a wimp. I sighed deeply, grabbing my pillow and blanket from my bed. "Okay. I'll sleep out there with you."

It was surprisingly cozy in the camper. Still early in the year for camping, the weather was cool. We snuggled under piles of blankets.We read stories. We listened to chirping frogs. Hopped up on marshmallows, noisy children joked and giggled. Pillows were tossed. Eventually everyone settled down and fell asleep. 

I awoke to the sounds of snoring children and the sun just peeking over the horizon. Sadly, there was no Matt building the fire for breakfast. Instead I crept from the camper, walked across wet grass and into the house to start the coffeemaker and get a shower. We had all survived the night. No one was eaten by a bear. No one had gotten lost. They might still be slightly sticky, but no one had gotten burned roasting marshmallows. It had been a different experience camping without my husband - not bad, just different. I could see us doing this again. 

Maybe.