City camping.

tentThis is why I’m not a gamblin’ kinda gal. It is seven a.m. and all is quiet in our backyard. Unless a pack of dingos gnawed through the back of the tent and dragged them all away, I’d say a large percentage of the original campers actually made it through the night. I cannot believe it. They picked the coldest night of the summer. There are many noises outside in the dark. My children have nothing by way of a camping pedigree. I really didn’t think they’d make it. And I’m glad I didn’t put any money on this.

kids

Post script: The unzipping this morning revealed three bleary-eyed, tousle-headed neighbors and none of my kids. As far as I can piece it together, this is how it went down:

10:00 p.m.: Devil Baby was removed against her will. We had to pull her out by her feet while she cursed a blue streak in three-year-oldese. I hated to do it, but there was no way she was going to fall asleep or let anyone else sleep.

10:45 p.m.: Supergirl slipped in the back door while Dash and I were playing with our new iPhones, muttered something about feeling safer inside, and retired upstairs with nary another peep. Knowing Supergirl to be prideful in manners of toughness and general cojones, we thought it better to refrain from any comment whatsoever.

The wee hours a.m.: Doctor Dash heard Saint James come inside to pee and then fall into his own bed.

Maybe I should have played those odds after all.

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