Just like last year, Greta and I camped a couple of weekends ago. Just like last year, our plans to spend the whole weekend were thwarted. Just like last year, one day was enough.
We hiked, which Greta swore she hated to do, and which, one hour later, she begged to do for the rest of the day.
We found the hippest play house ever.
Greta ate six meals in one day. No, seriously. My daughter. Greta. The one who has been on a hunger strike since she was three. She ate. A lot. Not just hot dogs and Cheetos. But some of that.
We built this fire, skillfully.
And when it got rained out {a monsoon, no joke}, we cried a little. But not for so long.
Because rained out campfire dinner means Plan B: fancy steak restaurant with velvet-upholstered chairs, an endless supply of children's menus to color, and an ice cream sundae for dessert, which for the pickier eater, is really just a dish of swirled vanilla.
Plan B also means coffee house breakfast rather than wet picnic table cereal. This day, Greta discovered that she loves coffee cake.
Our gear looks so festive hanging to dry from the deck at home, we might just leave it up for the rest of the month.
I think we bonded. Even if we didn't, at least we got some s'mores and sundaes out of the weekend.
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