I have been writing for many years, but only recently started to blog. It's time for a little humor. This story was originally written in January 16, 2007. It is told in two parts. You won't want to miss the end of this hilarious story!
The sign on the way out of the camp site said, “Take Only
Pictures. Leave Only
Footprints.” We are typically a
law-abiding family, but sometimes, things are simply beyond our control.
Last month (that fact will become important much later in
the story) we took our family on our 2nd Annual “Escape the Chaos of
Christmas” camping trip. For my
husband, that means a tent and sleeping bags. Problem is, only 4 of our 18 children
have been boys—and the majority of our girls aren’t the outdoorsy type.
I’m head of the girly girls. The last two times we went camping – oh, who am I kidding?
-- the only two times our family camped – we had young babies, it was December,
and I couldn’t bear the thought of our infant freezing to death – even if we do
live in Alabama.
Therefore, I insist on renting a cabin with running water, a
kitchen, and a space for the pack-n-play.
I meet with little resistance. Everyone prefers the comforts of heat, a
soft bed, and no living creatures with more than 2 legs– even if that means 13
people crammed into a cabin built for four, with a single bathroom.
Months before the big event, my husband begins asking,
cajoling, and finally begging for his girls to join him in the tent for a fun,
frolicking evening around the campfire.
He’s not a seasoned camper – as evidenced by the fact that he didn’t
know food inside the sleeping tent is
a bad idea – but the girls don’t know the difference.
The kids that are willing to humor their father and sleep in
the “man” tent insist on the campsite nearest the outdoor bathroom
facility. Moreover, after spending
all day inside the cabin in their sweats without a shower, they line-up for the
only indoor bath in order to shower, shave, straighten their hair and apply
full make-up before spending one night in a sleeping bag in the bitter mountain
cold. No amount of reasoning convinces them that this is not necessary. I find
it highly amusing.
I’m fairly certain that they are not trying to impress
anyone. I doubt the bears care
about make-up. It’s more about
comfort. They simply feel better
sleeping on the ground when they are clean and pretty.
But I digress. Obviously, we survived the four-day camping
trip. When it comes time to pack
the cars (it takes two cars to transport our family anywhere) each girl assumes
the task of collecting her personal items, stowing them in her designated,
pre-sized duffle bag and placing all of the extraneous parts and pieces directly
beside the car so that they can carefully crammed into the car at one
time. After years of traveling
with a large crew, I have packing down to a science.
The two and one-half hour drive home with 8 people in a
Suburban is a bit crowded, but we are not above using a portable DVD player to
keep them from killing each other.
Fortunately, I had to leave
a few hours earlier with some of the kids to get our 10 ½ month old to her “as
close to 9 months as we are able to remember and can actually find the time to
make the appointment -- well check-up”
But that’s another story.
Somewhere in route, I received a frantic phone call from one
of my girls – speaking in a rushed, high pitched tone, she says, “Mom! Mom! (Insert screams!) Can you hear
me? There’s something in the
car. Mom! I promise you! We have some furry creature in the car
with us. It just crawled across my
fo..oo..tt! (Insert 7 screaming girls!)
It was the kind of voice that made my mother heart jump as I immediately
envisioned dead bodies strewn across the road. Listening to her words, I realized it wasn’t quite that
dramatic, but I still couldn’t make sense of what they were screaming
about.
She continued, “Mom!
Dad doesn’t believe us, but I promise you some furry thing just crawled
across the floorboard of the car.
We must have packed up some animal when we packed the car. Mom! Please tell dad that we are serious.”
I try reasoning with my loving husband. “Are you sure it’s
nothing,” I say sweetly. Okay,
anyone who knows me, knows that’s a lie – I never speak sweetly. But I do ask
him. Then I figure any animal
crazy enough to get in the car with 7 screaming girls and my husband deserves
the punishment. Besides, I was in
another car.
Anyway, he refuses to pull over on the side of the
interstate, refuses to unpack all seven girls, the entire truckload of camping
supplies, 6 hair straighteners, 8 pillows, the dvd player, and all the dirty
clothes to find an imaginary animal.
He did suggest that they open the windows. He was ready to get home. Creature or not.
The remainder of the trip home the girls kept their feet in
their seats and refused to sleep – all watching intently for the next sign of
fur. There was none. When the
girls got home and emptied the car, there was still nothing.
Perhaps the problem is that seeing fur in the Suburban isn’t
all that unusual – however, it is more likely to be that furry green mold that
grows on a two-week old peanut butter sandwich than a small animal. In spite of the lack of evidence to support
their story, the girls remained firm in their belief that there was, in fact,
an illegal stow away from the camp ground.
Flash forward 21 days and approximately 2,000 miles on the
odometer.
I give my 20-year-old daughter two plastic applicator tampons
to put into the glove compartment.
She lays them on top of the tire warranty that we bought with the new
tires just days before the camping trip. These items are emergency equipment in
a car full of teen-age girls.
Two days later, we are loading the car for coop. My 14-year old daughter opens the glove
compartment and finds a perplexing scene.
Holding up one of the plastic wrappers that has obviously been chewed
open and a plastic applicator with a tiny hole in the handle she looks
quizzically and said, “Is this supposed to look like this?”
Initially, I wasn’t paying attention to her, which is not
all that unusual because I’m taking a head count of kids, making sure the baby
is properly restrained, checking behind others to make sure they what they need
and loading my teaching materials before we drive off. But her facial expression causes me to
notice her.
I glance over at the items she is holding and then divert my
eyes to the open glove box where I see that the cotton that has been removed and
shredded into tiny pieces which are now lying on top of the tire warranty. Upon further investigation, we discover
that the warranty is missing a one inch semi-circular chunk from the right
corner. The edge of the paper has a pattern that bears an uncanny resemblance
to tiny teeth marks.
What can I say? My husband was wrong. The evidence is overwhelmingly against
him!
How a small rodent has survived a month inside our car is a
mystery. How anything can survive in our grungy 1998 Suburban that is literally
falling apart at the seams is a mystery.
How it could go unnoticed during a 500 mile trip to Florida with 8
children, an 800 mile trip to
Kentucky, and a minimum of 12 trips per day taxiing kids on every errand you can imagine, is priceless.
Okay. We took
plenty of pictures. We left at
least 13 sets of footprints. It
was the “only” that gave us a little trouble.
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