Tents. A summer ritual.
Massive, messy, intricately constructed tents.
Ridiculously expansive tents created with every piece of living room/dining room furniture and every sheet, towel and blanket we own. And we can’t forget the duct tape, string and clothes pins to keep everything secure. I took a picture, but I cannot locate my camera at this moment; it would require hurdling over and crawling under miles of tent to find it.
This is an old tent. But you get the idea, right?
Just picture this one, but bigger.
My couch cushions are in the dining room, reaching almost to the edge of the kitchen. I cannot get to my front door. I tried to Army crawl to the front door to retrieve my purse, but I was blocked by an ottoman and a Lego airplane. I’m 35. I’m nimble and fit and reasonably intelligent, but I could not for the life of me figure out how to wiggle my way through the maze of chair legs and bed sheets to get my purse. I should have pretended it was barbed wire, in preparation for my mud run, however, I gave up and took the easier route which involved going downstairs into the basement, out the garage and back up the front steps.
As I sit here and type this, only one image comes to mind. The image of my sweet little Caroline, who at the age of 3 and without any prompting from me, grabbed a towel to wipe up a spill and said out loud, ‘Mom likes things neat and tidy.’
Where did I go wrong?
I really hate summer.