Kangatopia

It looks like I am going to be spending the weekend outdoors and under the stars (or at least in a tent) on a [expletives deleted] cubscout campout. I am not a woman who is made for camping, and probably with my emotional state as [expletive verb deleted] up as it is - my son is going to come home calling me a freak. Great. Just what I need. But Goddamnit, I will be SuperMom if I fucking have to be.

Okay - that’s the wrong attitude. To say I was caught unaware would be a more accurate portrayal of what’s going through my head. I’d been thinking of taking the girls to a festival near Austin, and so was getting all excited about that when Bear’s dad called and dropped this particular bit of news.

I haven’t been camping since that summer I lived in a tent in Ireland - and that wasn’t camping, as much as it was sleeping in a tent. I can do this. I can go without a shower for the better part of 48 hours. It will be fun, and I’ll be able to keep a close eye on my son. We’ll see flowers and nature trails and we’ll fish and there will be a bonfire! All wonderful things, and all terrific experiences for a boy to have with his mom, and a hundred other boys with their moms and dads. Maybe the parents that are divorced (and I get the feeling that there aren’t many in this crowd) can all sit in a little circle away from the marrieds and have boring talks about custody arrangements and making life run smoothly on a single income.   Or maybe, we can show each other our rabbits.  Now, that would be fun.