In a futile, rather weak moment I recently agreed to host six 6-year olds for a backyard campout. I think I panicked, realizing I hadn’t made good on all of my summertime promises to the kids. Or maybe deep down I wanted to be ‘that’ mom — the one others think of as SuperMom, brave and fearless. More likely it was to make myself feel better for knowing I am anything but ‘that’ mom. I’m the one who never participates in play dates, fails to come up with Martha Stewart-like crafts, writes my kids’ thank you notes for them, and always forgets to bring the camera for each and every recital. Nonetheless, I started out the evening with grand ambitions.
So here’s the story of my Midsummer Night’s Disaster. When I played this out beforehand in my head, it looked so different. I envisioned a perfectly behaved group of wood-whittling Girl Scouts. I figured we would braid hair, make S’mores and map out our favorite constellations on my newly acquired telescope. After all, I can pitch a beautiful tent, build an incredible campfire (in a little fire pit), make delectable custom S’mores, and break out a quartet of singing crickets — via a sleep machine.
But none of these things transpired. Rather it was a night of hair pulling, crying, fears of barking dogs and a seemingly constant stream of ambulance sirens and Harley motorcycles. My little cricket sound machine didn’t stand a chance amidst the racket. The S’mores were a gooey mess, and I wondered if SuperMom had ever tried to comb melted marshmallows out of a 6-year-old’s hair. The fire, as it would later turn out, did nothing more than smoke us out — giving us all a brief introduction to emphysema. And as for that beautifully pitched tent? Funny thing, I discovered that it’s not waterproof — or even water-resistant. So that’s how our evening ended: washed out in the backyard by eight.
The silver lining: I don’t think I’ll get hit up for leading the local Girl Scouts or for play dates any time in the near future. SuperMom will have to live to fight another day!