Tonight the kids wanted to sleep out in the backyard. It’s the first really summery weekend we’ve had, so why not, right? We pitched the tent and hauled the new sleeping bags out. Hubby offered to stay with them so I could sleep in the house, but I figured that wasn’t terribly fair, so after some Canada Day fireworks merriment from around the neighbourhood (can we blow shit up out here in the boondocks? HELL YES) we hunkered down.
I slept, eventually. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, my left hip was digging into the ground and I felt like my head was rolling downhill even though the tent is on a piece of level ground but whatever! we’re having an adventure! making a memory with the kids and all it cost us was the money for, um, four new sleeping bags and foam mats. Also infinity mosquito bites from sitting out on the deck after dark on a windless night in July.
Woke up three hours later, stiff, needing to pee, slightly nauseous. Hubby snoring but he’s on the other side of the tent so I daren’t crawl over the kids just to adjust the angle of his head so he stops. Every car driving past on the road sounds like it’s running into my head. Nose running because hey! I’m still allergic to the cheap showiness of nature, apparently. The slightly tilted feeling from earlier in the night has translated into full-blown “oh my fucking god I’m falling backwards off a cliff”.
I unzipped the tent oh so carefully, came into the house, peed, found Kleenex. Still nauseous but trying to get sleepy enough that when I go back outside, I’ll sleep. I hope.
And hubby wonders why the idea of back country camping fills me with dread.