Erin’s column: The Camping Trip

As we all do at one point or another, I found myself staring at the ceiling of a 1997 Eureka tent constructed in the middle of my dining room, wondering whether I was going to die. 

It was March 2020, and the entire world had abruptly paused earlier that afternoon, sending us home to what felt like a snow day with a possibility of death, rather than snowball fights, ahead of us.

I was working at a nonprofit at the time, gearing up to help with the largest fundraiser of the year that evening. The event would help fund our philanthropic work for the following year, so it wasn’t going to be derailed by a little flu, we thought earlier in the week. But by 9 a.m. that day, we talked about potentially wearing masks at the event. By 10:30 a.m., we watched the guest list dwindle, and by 1 p.m. as the state shut down around us, we were phoning the guests and packing up our offices, set to work from home for “two weeks.” 

My husband came home from his office, now also shut down, and proudly unveiled three canisters of Clorox wipes and eight cans of beef ravioli. Decisions, it seems, were made at Kroger that day. 

We sanitized every doorknob, replaced all the soap, looked at each other and sort of stood there. In those early days of the pandemic, it felt like the virus was lurking around every corner. It can live on cardboard for 73 days, someone told me. It doesn’t like heat. It can’t survive cold. Wash your vegetables with soap. 

Rummaging through our junk drawer filled with dried-up Sharpies and worn-down pencils, I assured the kids and our exchange student that this quarantine would be no big deal — kind of like camping for a few weeks. 

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Camping. We are going camping.”

Quarantine, I decided at this moment, wouldn’t be a memory that scared my children. It wouldn’t be something that made them afraid one of us might not be there on the other side. It would be a joy-filled parade of Pinterest-inspired crafts and activities.

“It’s going to be so much fun,” I told them, less of a statement than an order, as I fished out a small flashlight from the drawer and clicked it on. 

They would remember only fun, only joy, I decided, crawling into a kitchen cabinet and yanking out a dusty red plastic contraption with wire mesh grates on one side and a teeny tiny Sterno candle. The indoor s’mores maker I bought on a whim the year before. Good thing I have this, I thought to myself.  

I am never able to do a simple thing, it turns out.  

Overdoing things is sort of my brand. It’s fair to say that I don’t believe in half measures, or even whole measures, for that matter. I believe in double measures, with a little extra, just in case someone has an allergy. 

If we volunteer to host an Italian dinner for family at our house, I outfit the kitchen in red and white checked tablecloths, learn to make cavatappi from scratch with sun-dried tomatoes and capers, and call my godmother in New York for her cannoli recipe. 

Have you ever been really hungry when you ordered Chinese food and opened the takeout bag when it’s delivered, only to find twice as much kung pow chicken as you could reasonably eat? That’s me, all the time. If someone misjudges how much food is needed for a party, well, “you really ‘Erined’ that one,” my family now says. 

The rest of that evening is a blur of construction paper and sleeping bags, as I barked orders at a then 6- and 4-year-old to please, for the love of all that is holy, hold the tent poles where they are supposed to go and stop moving them. This camping trip will be perfect.

“And a campfire. We have to have a campfire,” I hissed, whipping myself into a camp-fueled frenzy, pulling out a massive box of craft supplies. 

Jude cringed as I yelled “JUST ARRANGE THE CONSTRUCTION PAPER INTO DELICATE FLAMES, ELLIE! DELICATE FLAMES! WE ARE HAVING FUN! STOP CRYING!”

Five hours later, we lay in the tent, one of my kids tucked under each arm, wondering what the next two weeks of quarantine would be like for us. Man, these will be a long two weeks, I thought, as I heard the gentle hiss of the air mattress deflating under us.

Perfect.

“I’m going upstairs to sleep in my bed. I hate camping,” whispered Ellie, abruptly, three minutes into our adventure. 

“Are you serious?” I protested, already knowing the answer. “I did all this for you!”

“Mommy. You wanted to camp, not me,” she said.

“Nooo, that’s not true,” I said, vaguely aware that I was pouting to my kindergartner, as she thunked up the stairs, trailing a hot pink mermaid blanket behind her. 

And it hit me. She may have been right. There are few things worse than a 6-year-old being smarter than you, again. 

Maybe this camping trip wasn’t to convince my kids we would be OK. Maybe it was to convince myself. 

This flurry of activity, this dreamed up adventure for my family may have been a way to hide my fear that this pandemic was so far beyond my control, and there was no amount of supermomming or Pinteresting that could keep me or my family safe. 

And so I sat there, almost unable to catch my breath — wait, was this a symptom of COVID? — staring at the ceiling of a tent in my dining room, listening to Jude’s gentle snore beside me. 

As I watched his tiny chest rise and fall, I remember thinking that it was time to give up. I have done my best to keep them safe, but I cannot erase all fear for them — or for me. Whatever will be is beyond my scope. I guess it’s a bit like parenting, in the big picture. 

There is something beautiful in the resignation that you cannot actually control all the things — not the exquisite dinner party, not my kid’s emotions, not someone’s opinion of me, not the camping trip in my dining room, and especially not the future. 

I let out a long exhale. 

I could almost hear the crackle of campfire beside me, as I drifted off to sleep.