The same carve in the mountains we retreat to every summer.
My first experience camping as a parent was here. Genevieve was four weeks old. I was naive and unprepared for the rigors of infant care compounded by the great outdoors. I hiked too far, too mesmerized by my new baby to pay attention to the fact that my body still felt like I'd been run over by a truck. It took what we now refer to as my "death march" to have my eyes opened to the need to take care of myself too.
Five summers of camping later. I'm joined around the campfire by two girls in their own pink camping chairs, two girls who sleep in their own sleeping bags, two girls who can pee behind a tree unattended, two girls who help themselves to snacks and water. Two girls. Two parents. Lots of friends. Nice groove.
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