The Things We do for Love

I am not, shall we say, the outdoorsy kind. In fact, my idea of "camping" is a hotel with less than four stars. And yet, when the annual mother-daughter camping trip comes up with the Brownies, I don't have the heart to say no to M. And so we pack up the car and head to the forest where we encroach on nature and piss off a lot of bugs and woodland creatures with our loud children and insect repellent.

We return home two days later, filthy and exhausted and furiously clawing at a fresh collection of bug bites. As I unload the car and haul the bug spray soaked laundry off to the basement, I debate whether or not to it would be easier to just burn the stuff. So far I have thought better of it, but I make no promise for the future.

Invariably, I vow never to return as I wait impatiently after loading the car to just GTFO of there and make a triumphant return to civilization. And then I flick through the pictures and see the joy on her smiling face as she roasts marshmallows and climbs rock walls and learns to interact in the social pecking order of her peers.

"Can we go again next year, Mom."

"Yes, honey. Of course we can."