My back is a mess. Nothing deadly or permanently debilitating. Yet, a very compelling argument for NOT sleeping on a cot at Boy Scout camp for the better part of this week. Still, as I sit in my lazy girl chair in my comfy living room writing this post, I find myself wanting to go.
Boy Scout camp is not Turner's idea of a relaxing time. He hates bugs. Well, more specifically, he hates bug bites.
After last month's weekend camp out his eye swelled shut, the result of a mosquito bite. He wanted me to buy him a pirate eye patch so that he could walk amongst the living without drawing attention to himself. I suggested Benadryl.
When I was Turner's age, my parents toured Europe with my brother and me. Camping was our habitat. My parents drank wine and feasted on local foods. They were ecstatic.
I was most definitely not. My brother and I rarely spoke. He was a surly 13 year old boy with pubescent moods. I was a whiny, irritating and often carsick 11 year old girl.
I was most definitely not. My brother and I rarely spoke. He was a surly 13 year old boy with pubescent moods. I was a whiny, irritating and often carsick 11 year old girl.
Even today, pictures of the Swiss Alps cause my stomach to churn.
Lovely.
Boy Scout camp is a mere 3 hours northeast. With my aching spine and Turner's buggish fears it feels like a much longer trek.
Our lives are made up of moments and memories. Some are pleasant and warming while others are best stuffed into Pandora's trunk and forgotten. Where Boy Scout camp fits is, as yet, unknown. My guess is, we will be better for having taken this step. Paradoxically, it is during our small journey's into the unknown when we become better acquainted with who we truly are. It is in those moments that we learn that we can not only survive... we can thrive.
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