The tale you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to prevent cataclysmic, permanent embarrassment. “That’s it! We’re going home!” After two crazy sleepless nights in a cold tent, my husband’s patience had run out after our camping trip went bad. Memorial Day weekend my family packed up for a three day ultimate camping trip to Armstrong Woods State Park with Grandma and Grandpa, 40 minutes from home. We looked forward to introducing our children to the serenity we seemed to find whenever we ventured into God’s creation. Our minivan lumbered up the steep, winding one-lane five mile per hour road to the campsite. I held my breath at the closeness of the mountain’s edge, praying we wouldn’t meet an on-coming vehicle. Just before I turned purple and needed resuscitation, we arrived under the safe canopy of the towering redwoods. The van doors flung open and my two preschool boys, David 5, and Lucas, 2, wiggled out of their seats and raced into the great outdoors. They quickly occupied themselves by making roads in the dirt with pine cones, sticks and rocks and I wished I’d left the trunk full of conventional toys at home. Our three-month-old daughter, Emma, stayed cozy in her car seat while we set up our borrowed tent for a Hoss family, memory-making, relaxing camping vacation. Night came quickly in the coastal mountains, but excited campers refused to settle down. The lights finally went out around ten-ish and we settled in for a good night’s sleep. Safely zipped in the same tent and wrapped in warm sleeping bags, we weren’t going anywhere until the morning sun thawed the cold air which puffed in miniature clouds from our sleeping children. The soothing sound of the wind rustling in the trees overhead lulled me to dreamland. A couple of hours into my blissful rest, I awakened to a familiar noise. “Someone in this campground has a bad cold,” I thought and drifted back to slumber. Again the coughing noise broke through the dark silence. This time I didn’t have to guess where it came from. Lucas lay next to me, coughing, then crying, coughing then crying. I tried to relieve his discomfort, but after an hour with no improvement, we determined he needed a doctor. With David tucked away in Grandma and Grandpa’s tent, Lucas and baby in tow, we began our treacherous trek down the one lane dirt road in the dark. I prayed for safety as a heavy footed, white knuckled worried Daddy took us precariously down the mountain. Emma slept and Lucas cried. It was a long drive. Instead of resting in the redwoods, we camped inside the emergency room, hoping our son would begin to breath normally soon or he’d be hospitalized. We caught sporadic Z’s while curled in the fetal position propped in hard plastic chairs that keep chiropractors in business. Emma slept through the noise of the oxygen bubbler and Lucas began to settle down and take unlaboured breaths. Eight Albuterol nebulizer treatments later, the doctors released Lucas from the ER assuring we could return to camping if we gave him treatments every two hours. With medication instructions whirling about in our brains, we decided to go to our two storey home and get some rest on a soft, comfortable indoor bed before returning to the luxury of our deflating air mattress. As the sun began to set, we traveled back, ascending the treacherous road to the serenity of our campsite, just in time for roasting marshmallows. One day a wash, two left to fulfill our ultimate family camping trip dream. After wiping sticky fingers and faces and tucking them in for the night, we climbed into our sleeping bags exhausted. Oh the joy of being horizontal and relaxed. Sleep came instantly to our exhausted bodies. “Mom! I wet Grandma’s sleeping bag!” In my cloud-fogged half conscious state of mind, I heard our eldest moan. I groaned, rolled over in the opposite direction, turned on the flashlight and took note of the time, three o’clock. Handing my husband the flashlight, I mumbled directions on where to find a change of clothes and snuggled beneath the warm comfort of my sleeping bag. I’d let Daddy handle it. Unbeknownst to us, David hadn’t liquidated Grandma’s sleeping bag, he had only piddled a drop or two, then stopped the flow and cried for help. To an adult robbed of much needed rest, one drip sounded like a waterfall and Daddy had plunged over it without a life preserver in a way only a sleep deprived father could. He stripped our son down to his birthday suit and left him standing in the crisp, frigid mountain air while he searched the suitcase. I peeked out of my cocoon to see David, naked and shivering while articles of clothing flew through the air. I giggled and rolled over. Just as Daddy retrieved a clean pair of Star Wars briefs from the bottom of the suitcase, David announced in desperate crescendo, “I have to go. I have TO GO! I’M GOING!” The sound of running water in a friend’s borrowed tent is not a good thing. I sat up to witness my son, looking like a concrete cherub fountain letting it flow. Daddy’s cupped hands swayed back and forth trying to catch it. When the cup method failed, Daddy attempted to pinch the nozzle off as his fingers impersonated tweezers, clamping at the source of the flow. “STOP! STOP!” he screamed. David stopped… when he was empty. Fortunately the tent was pitched on a slight incline and the flooding river raged to the southeast corner, away from anything vital to our survival. I emerged from my comfort zone and began sandbagging the dike. It took every one of our clean towels to sop up the flood. The indicator on David’s tank was definitely on the big “E.” “That’s it!” Daddy roared, his hands in the air. “We’re going home!” Clearly I understood and respected how my husband felt. Our weekend campout, meant to be restful, had been just the opposite. I sympathized, yet a giddy feeling bubbled from deep within my tired spirit and I wanted to laugh. So I did. There was no containing my behaviour as I dropped to the deflating air mattress and rolled about with joyful, gut-splitting fits of funny-bone ecstasy. Daddy glared. David shivered. I stopped my carousing to assess the severity of the situation. How bad could it be? When I dared look at my husband in the shadowy flashlight, his stern face began to tremble. His lips widened to dimple his cheeks, he swallowed twice and gave up the fight. His laughter billowed in waves and I joined him allowing the best medicine to overflow and drench us with healing joy. I’m not sure how long we convulsed at the hilarity of the situation while David skipped naked about the tent, his worrisome goose bumps a thing of the past. Lucas and Emma never heard a thing. The thin tarp walls seemed to bellow in and out from our spontaneous eruption probably awakening the entire snoozing campground. But that didn’t stop us. We were making a joyful noise and loving every minute. Our heavy, stressed out hearts from the extended stay the night before in the ER, no sleep and a urine soaked tent, were made light and merry because of a simple principle -laughter is a good medicine. Whenever our family or a friend needs a good laugh to lift a heavy heart, we flood them with memories of our ultimate family camping trip, complete with actions, although changing the names to protect the innocent is difficult for those familiar with my family.   Submitted By: Christy Hoss