It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Camping with the extended family is always a rollicking good time. So is camping. Period. For that matter.
This time, it didn't go so well really, not for Dave. He suffered with the worst migraine of his four-year old, little life. Lots of pain and puking. Sorry. No nice way to put it.
That's all behind him now. I think. I hope. I pray.
He was a new man today. No more agony. Just lots of full-throttle silliness. That's my boy.
The camping trip was an odd mix. Check that. I'm not speaking of my relatives in this instance, although "odd mix" would not be a stretch. Ahem.
It rained often if not much. Enough to dampen the feet. Inwardly, I laughed at the rain. It was either laugh or cry. I'd much rather laugh.
I had my husband's baseball hat to protect my curly locks. Dry bangs = happy woman.
All told, dry ankles = happy woman too. Every morning I had clean, dry pants to don. No matter that within minutes I'd step out into sogginess that would eventually soak my ankles because, for the moment, my pants were clean and snug and unsaturated by rain slosh.
These, I found, were the essentials: my baseball hat, clean pants, and a pain-free Dave. Unfortunately I got the latter far less than I would have liked. C'est la vie.
Last year at this time, all was right with the world. I don't recall that it rained. Even more of the extended family was on hand to add to the aforementioned odd mix. I most certainly had a pain-free Dave then. Yet, he didn't quite make it through the canoe trip.
It was the best of times.
A Word to the Fighters
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