She’s one unhappy camper


I am not, nor will I ever be, the ‘roughing it” type.
My husband, bless his heart, refuses to believe this. And now he’s recruited my own precious child to conspire against me in a valiant, if misguided, effort to turn me into the one thing I simply will not ever be: a happy camper.
RV and arcade bliss. I cannot recall any happy camping experiences – ever.
My entire life’s experience with “camping” was to arrive at a campground in my grandparent’s gazillion-foot long RV, and make a break for the arcade and in-ground pool before they’d even hooked up the cable television.
This was camping the way nature intended – at least if nature had a vote.
I’ve always suspected the deer and the antelope would rather all those wildlife enthusiasts mucking around in the woods would just stay home. However, since I wouldn’t get within 25 feet of wildlife if you paid me, I can’t prove this.
Be prepared. Nonetheless, because the Boy Scouts of America are selflessly dedicated to making my life miserable, I found myself camping recently.
This means that I left my warm and cozy abode with a bed that is a) not on the ground and b) located indoors, in order to sleep in a small domed tent on a 30 degree night. Only my 6-year-old’s Powerpuff Girls sleeping bag separated me and the coyotes that prowled the darkened, menacing night.
I also went fishing but some things are just not fit to print in a family column.
Overnight ‘fun.’ The plan was for an overnight jaunt to a Boy Scout “Family Camp” for a little campfire fun.
The Boy Scouts, see, are one of those meddlesome groups bent on making the whole family have fun together if it kills us. Thus, in the scouting spirit of roughing it and traveling light, we brought enough camping gear and food to start our own country.
Role model. The problem with my “I hate camping” demeanor on this particular foray is that I was surrounded – mobbed really – by enthusiastically adorable and blissfully happy Cub Scouts.
Cub Scouts are a breed of boy from about 7 to 10 years old. Each is as cute as the dickens in their little tiger, bobcat, werewolf (OK, maybe that’s not right


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Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless.