In which we camped

We've been back in civilization for almost a week now (and what a joke that is--our camping is far from roughing it), and since the rest of the world has this week off, including my daycare, I've been back at work with my little assistant, darling C. After a week of sleeping outdoors and waking to ride bikes or hike or roll around in the sand dunes or sit beside Lake Michigan, the greatest of the Great Lakes if you ask me, it was strange to watch her beneath the fluorescent lights plugged into Pippi Longstocking, her obsession of the moment, so I could get a few things done. What a contrast.

Vacations like these are the things I hope Clementine remembers forever--a great group of families who have been camping together in one form or another for over 20 years (we're the newbies and the only ones with a toddler), days starting slowly with some romping in the tent before emerging to do one of a dozen outdoor activities, campfires at night, bugs and fish to examine, sunsets and ice cream at the beach each night. It was all good. But before I fade into a haze of the remembered paradise, there were, of course, some incidents. Take, for example, the crisis of the Crocs.

I don't resist trends just to resist trends, although Crocs really do bug me solely for the fact that they are so ubiquitous and come in such silly colors. But that's really an adult attitude. For a kid, they are great, and I thank my sister every day for bringing them into our lives--C's Crocs, which she pronounces "cocks," are one of two pairs of shoes that fit, and they are certainly the most acceptable ones for camping in dirt and walking through the sand, wading in the water and playing on the beach. You can imagine, then, my distress when I realized that somewhere along the way, C's Crocs were gone. They weren't in the bike basket. They weren't on the beach. They weren't at the ranger station. Shit. Try shoving Vans on a kid's sandy, sweaty feet so she doesn't just shuffle through the dirt floor of the campsite.

But I wasn't the only one upset. After the novelty of wearing cousin Nora's Crocs wore off, Clementine started getting more and more demanding: "Baby Crocs. Baby wear Baby Crocs. Baby Crocs NOW!" We did what I think anyone would do: drove to town and bought a new pair. In the store I showed her orange Crocs and green ones, purple and white, but she spied the turquoise ones and cried "Baby Crocs!" running toward them with such recognition and relief that I handed them over and paid the lady. This seamless transition from old to new was great...until, oh a whim, I asked the ranger a few days later if the shoes had turned up. Of course they had--a state park is no safe harbor for thieves of expensive little baby shoes. And so now we're the proud owners of two pairs of turquoise Crocs.

It seems strange that little episode stands out, but the rest of the trip was really uneventful. Clementine had such a great time frolicking--and that really is the word for it, marching around and chanting "La la Pippi Longstocking la la la," until I started to miss the oddly dubbed DVDs of the 70s Swedish show that Clementine has become enamored with. It was very fitting she fixated on that while camping because she had the same impish grin, the child's approach to just about everything, especially bedtime. This was the first time I could see the wheels turning for her: "Why do I have to go to bed when everyone else is up and eating sugar?"

Which I guess takes us to the sugar detox program we've been implementing since we've been home. After a few days camping she reverted to an animal state and would walk up to any of our friends who happened to be eating something delicious and would stand there, mouth open, waiting for a bite. Of course everyone always obliged, and I started to sound like the world's worst nag with the say please and say thank you and no, Clementine, you can't have anymore ice cream/cookies/chips/licorice/s'mores.

Of course there are pictures. In many of them she's so covered in dirt and sand and sweat and grime and sunscreen you can barely make out that it's her. In others she's asleep. While camping makes some look earthy and natural, I look sweaty and like I have big pores. I will post them, but for now I'm going to put the finishing touches on my Friday, which included a great little family dinner. When it was over we asked if she wanted to go the park, ride bikes or go to the bookstore. She picked bookstore and stuck with it, no matter what incentive I threw her way to make it an outdoor option. We've had to read her Tikki Tikke Tembo and Strega Nona twice now, and she's finally asleep.