Fathers and sons torture (also called camping)

About 12 years ago my wife needled me about our new born son, saying well now I would have to go to all those father and son’s camp outs.  I pointed out that if they want me to go then their better be a camp-out to a motel because that was about as roughing it as I get.

Sadly this weekend her prediction came true.  I had to go *shudder* camping.

Camping is not fun, it is not some adventure for me.  It is worse than Guantanamo for me.  I have not liked since I was five and forced into a tent at Walt Disney World where my mother burnt our plastic bottom by putting a hot pan on the tent bottom.  I can honestly say I never have really enjoyed camping since I was a child.

If you put me in a Winnebago or some camper trailer you are stretching credibility.  Want me to take a paper thin foam, lay a half inch thick sleeping back on top and expect me to enjoy myself?  You are having a laugh.

I like wandering around outside, I enjoy strolling through underbrush, playing in a lake or some other outdoor pursuit.   Force me into a tent and well you are asking for trouble.

So in the fall my 11 year old asked me to go to his “winter” camp.  Flat out no.  Puppy dog face and many pleases later I still say no but I said, “I will go to your daycamp in the spring.”

You would think I would learn but I cornered myself, I simply did not understand that this “daycamp” included an overnight portion.  Having been cruel and saying no in the past i knew I was screwed.  It was meant that I was going camping.

So off we go, father and son to our camping adventure, ok how bad could it be?  Well when you factor in 20 11 year old boys running around until midnight it could be pretty bad.  Yikes.  One kid was so hyped up on S’mores and hot chocolate he was running around like a noisy humming bird. 

And just to finish me off, nature and I have determined that I am basically allergic to southern Alberta.  The dust gives me Asthma, which agravates my hay fever in the spring and one more little beauty, Cottonwood trees.  They were all over our camp and by the end of the first 30 minutes I was a wheezy mucus filled mess.

So at the end of the camp both my wife and I warned our son not to expect me again, but that we still love him anyway.  He appreciated my effort and how I was, in my wife’s words, “Not moaning about it the whole time.”

So now one boy down, three more to go…  ugh.

Doggone fascination this church has with Boy Scouts.

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