As a child, I was captivated by the tales of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her life on the Minnesota prairies. I eagerly consumed her books and enjoyed the television adaptation featuring an endearing girl with braids living a simple life by Plum Creek. I yearned for the days of fishing after school and envied their covered wagon adventures.
However, here’s the reality: Watching a show about a pioneer girl is one thing, but attempting to live that lifestyle today—especially with the luxuries of air conditioning and indoor plumbing—is utterly absurd.
Camping is an ordeal, and camping with children is even worse.
Honestly, I struggle to understand why anyone would willingly pack their belongings, drive into the wilderness, unpack everything, and spend days living like cavemen. And I certainly don’t feel comfortable with just a flimsy piece of nylon separating me, my kids, and a potentially dangerous bear roaming the area.
I absolutely despise camping.
But my husband and kids are all in favor of it, and therein lies the conundrum.
They rave about the beauty of waking up to a sunrise over a serene lake. They extol the virtues of “unplugging” and feeling as connected to nature as Snow White. They even go on about how delightful hot dogs taste when roasted over a fire that took hours to build because no one thought to pack matches.
I suspect my family enjoys camping because I handle all the preparation to ensure we don’t have to resort to munching on goji berries and tree bark while living among cartoon bears. They have no idea how much effort goes into packing everything we need to survive in the middle of nowhere. They can’t fathom the sheer number of marshmallows that must be purchased, nor do they realize how many baby wipes are necessary to avoid, well, discomfort.
Camping is utterly draining.
It involves endless folding, unfolding, and refolding. Upon arrival at the campsite, there’s the exasperating task of setting up the tent, which can take forever as you struggle to remember where the poles fit. After three days of sharing close quarters with a now-stinky family, you face another marathon of disassembling your temporary home and rolling up the tent. And when you finally return home, you have to air it out because it now smells like a mix of sweat and burnt snacks. In total, that tent has consumed 288 minutes of my life that I will never get back.
Camping is also fraught with stress.
When my family insists on escaping to the woods, my greatest anxiety revolves around the bathroom situation. For the record, I am what is commonly referred to as a “home pooper,” and let’s be honest: latrines are not my idea of a pleasant restroom experience. The struggle with camping-induced constipation is real, and waking up at 2 AM to weigh the urgency of a bathroom trip against the perils of the dark is not a fun game.
Camping can be incredibly annoying, too.
I have a theory that air mattress manufacturers intentionally create tiny holes in their products. I’m convinced these factories are staffed by people who find amusement in watching campers struggle. I have never encountered an air mattress that didn’t leak, and I refuse to accept the notion that real campers sleep on the ground under the stars. If I’m confined to a nylon shelter, I want to at least be comfortable and not have a rock digging into my back.
Kudos to those who embrace camping and find joy in it. I, however, do not share that sentiment. I don’t want to deal with hair that smells like smoke for a week or prepare meals using tiny grills and utensils that fit in my pocket. Unless camping involves a luxurious RV parked conveniently near a café with reliable Wi-Fi, don’t expect to see me strumming a guitar at the campsite, singing Kumbaya.
So, family, you’re on your own. Because camping is truly the worst.
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