Glamping

We went camping recently.  No, it wasn't really camping.  Camping, to me, involves tents and sleeping bags and dirt.  And less-than-what-I-have-in-my-house restroom facilities.  So this wasn't really camping.  We, with the encouragement of my vivacious sister-in-law, rented a cute little cabin for the weekend.  No, of course it wasn't big enough for all of us, so the oldest boys pitched a tent and did the camping thing.  They did.  I didn't.  I slept in a bed, under sheets.  This is glamping.

The man and I had a queen bed, and then there was a bunkbed with a full on bottom and a twin on top.  We fit six of us in there, plus one more on the floor.  It was nice and cozy.  And we had a bathroom!  With a shower!

My brother's hamburgers are never better than when eaten outdoors on a wooden picnic table.  We ate lunch at an historic park.  We went on (itty bitty) hikes and saw amazing vistas.  We got s'mores in our hair.  We saw the Milky Way.  It was great.

Dad trying to corral Freddie, Mom gracefully falling off the step, David trying to stop Ben from pouring water on us, Angel and her funny faces, David's monkey ears, and "Oh Heavens do I really belong to these people??"  Georgie was sleeping in the van.  I think.

Living all that close and bunched up together gives you a new perspective on things.  Like how our ancestors could have lived with a family in the double digits in a log cabin of this size.  Amazing.  Like how well we really can get along without any outside things going on.  Like how much my teens would die, just die without electricity to recharge their PDDs (personal distraction devices).  Like how many people in this family snore!  And I'm the light sleeper of the bunch!   I'm lucky I made it out of there with my sanity intact.

 And I realized, like I do every day or so, how much I love this family.