We are a dysfunctional lot at best. The five of us. Not the five of us individually. And not the five of us in pairs (depending on who comprises the pair). And not the five of us if at least two of the under-18 crowd is under the weather.
But for the last 24 hours or so and for the next 24 hours or so, all is fun. There is something about a campground -- particularly a campground with only 16 sites out of 200+ occupied -- that sets us up for togetherness of a not-excruciatingly-painful nature.
Sitting around the campfire, we learn of brilliant scores on history tests, of kudos from a non-teacher about writing skills, of the dreams of one to be a pop star and another to be a great goalie (or a teacher but "don't worry, Mommy, I'd never want to be president of the United States")*, of the fears of a parent dying and leaving young children and of another parent outliving the children and of a child worried about the campground murderer coming.
(That girl had it coming, the scaredy cat, she asked for a ghost story and I told a GREAT one. Only I ended up sleeping with the two younger children because, Oh Em Gee!)
There has been frisbee playing and bouncy house jumping and breakfast and camp store sojourns and dirt and dust and gophers.
If I were to die and leave young children behind, I would hope they would remember these moments, the moments when even Eldest will say, freakin' aloud, "I couldn't be happy if Youngest weren't alive."
*Are we teaching that kid right, or what?
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