"This would be a perfect night to go camping."
It's become an joke in our marriage. When it's freezing, and we're bundled in heavy coats, hands bound in bulky gloves, I tease him, "Isn't it a perfect night to go camping?"
Oh how he loves to camp. Oh how I love a warm bed with soft sheets. Do you see the impasse?
Last night, I finally camped with the boy. We had planned a trip to a camping site close to our house, but in the end, even a 20 minute drive just felt like too much.
Off to the backyard it was. A man's tent is his castle.
We had a planning session for our upcoming trip to Europe. Planning by light of headlamp and the glow of the laptop feels super special.
I never did learn to hold a pencil the correct way. Homeschooled.
Jotting down names in a tent in Missouri. Feeling like a little kid playing at imagination.
We paged through Lonely Planet's cheapskate guide to Europe and imagined Giverny, Paris, Interlachen, Munich, Venice, Cinque Terre, Florence, and Rome. Wrote down destinations next to dates, and laughed, knowing that our plan will probably fall through and we might get lost multiple times, but we'll have some stinkin' good gelato and we'll be together.
Tonight, together in a tent.
In June, together in the continent of romance.
Deep sigh of contentment and amazement.
All is grace.