By Sunday afternoon I had received two invites to a nearby provincial park to play this week, one for Monday and one for Wednesday. By Sunday evening I had packed the car for a three-day, just kids and me camping trip.
Yes, I know I'm crazy. The decision meant setting up our eight man tent by myself with a baby, a toddler and a preschooler underfoot. It meant a trip to the grocery at the crack of dawn Monday morning. It meant hauling three kids to the comfort station when I had to use the bathroom. It meant driving through the campground to pick the perfect camping spot: one with a swingset and a slide literally on our site and right behind the bathroom.
It also meant playing pirates on their ship on an old-school wooden playground. It meant building a massive sand castle city. It meant cooking hot dogs over the fire and reading "Stewart Little" on the beach. It meant the four of us passing out in the tent on hot afternoons. It meant cuddling up around a fire as darkness fell and singing camp songs I learned as a kid.
There is nothing I loved more, before I had kids, then impromptu vacations. Now I have discovered I can still do it with kids.