Camping. You’ve got to love it, unless it’s one of those times where you hate it.
Being one with nature, being away from home and commitments, being together as a family . . . it’s all great. The greatest. The best. Could not ask for more.
But one manifestation of Maddie’s Angelman Syndrome is that she gags and pukes. Often.
She pukes at smells (say for example, if a gallon of milk would happen to fall out of the camper fridge and break on the drive up and slosh into the registers, then sit in the unreachable crevices in the summer heat. . . it’s quite a noxious smell).
She pukes at disgusting-ness (take four boys, and all the boogers, snot, pee, and spit that they are either talking about or excreting, and it’s pretty much constant disgusting-ness).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m *so* used to puke. I couldn’t be more used to it. I catch puke in my bare hands. I catch puke in my own shirt so we don’t disturb where we are at. I’ve been cleaning up puke for about 10 years. From the constant projectile vomiting as an infant, to the every-mealtime puking of toddler-hood, to the every-mealtime puking because she finds her younger siblings to be messy eaters, to the lull of once every other week of a few years ago.
Puke is basically my life.
(Ok, that was a total exaggeration, but it sounded good.)
But damn is it depressing at times. Like the sixth time it happens in two days. And I step in it. Is it too much to ask that I don’t step in it? Really. That sucks.
So technically it’s not the camping that I hate, but the stepping in puke while camping. But right at this moment, my foot is still wet, and it’s hard to separate the two though.
So, when is our next trip scheduled for?
(major eye rolls)
