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| Rex, Heather and baby Ty on 1994 camping trip |
It seemed like such a good idea at the time. What could be better than Rob and I packing up our three kids (one a baby less than a year old!) a dog, my brother Rex and heading off on a family camping trip in the Colorado mountains?
I swear we stayed in the campground long enough to unpack the station wagon, pose for this picture, burn a meal over a fire pit, wait for the sun to go down, and crawl into the supposedly family-size tent before all hell broke loose with a screaming, puking baby, a howling dog, a crying toddler and whining child, a frazzled husband and my brother begging to be taken back to his apartment.
Me, being the voice of reason in all things, announced that we were not going to spend all night crammed in this miserable tent with a sick baby and no way in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks were we going home at midnight, either. We were going to a hotel.
NOW.
Rob and I led the kids, the dog and Rex to the car and then we proceeded to stuff all of our camping gear in the back of the station wagon without regard to organization because did I mention it there was no moon that night and it was pitch black outside? By the light of one flashlight we decamped in record time and careened down the narrow, twisty two-lane mountain road to the nearest hotel with a neon Vacancy sign. We had a lovely weekend napping by the swimming pool and watching cartoons on cable tv.
My brother never again asked to go camping with us. I think that is why we all got along so well, we knew and accepted our limits of family togetherness.
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