Some things just don't mix: oil and water, Tom and Jerry, grandchildren and sleep.
I love my grandchildren. They are sweet and lovable and endlessly entertaining. But I also love my sleep, so there are inevitable conflicts.
Miranda is eight, Zeke is five, Malachi is two. When we have them all at the same time it is like a three-ring circus over here. All we're missing is the clown car and the smell of elephant poop. (Though, on second thought, Malachi is a pretty dependable source of poop smells.)
It doesn't matter how much we ignore their parents' instructions, and keep those kids up past their bedtimes: They will still be up and bouncing off the walls at the crack of dawn, demanding breakfast and a trip to the playground.
At least when we are at home, we don't have to worry about them disturbing the neighbors, since the grand-kids' ruckus-raising can't be heard outside of our walls. But when we go camping, there are problems.
If you have ever been camping at a state park, you understand that there are rules such as: no fireworks, dogs must be on a leash, don't pick the flowers. One of my favorite rules is "Quiet-time hours are from 11 PM to 7 AM."
That is a good rule. After a long day of swimming or hiking or whatever, I am tired, and I need my rest. You can safely assume that your camping neighbors also want to enjoy their peaceful night of sleep.
Just try explaining that to a two-year-old.
On our last camping trip to Brown County, I was soundly sawing logs at 6:00 in the morning. Then I was mercilessly roused from slumber by a persistent noise that kept orbiting around the camper, like when a fly keeps zipping around your head and you get that disconcerting 360 degree "surround-sound" buzz.
As I groggily entered consciousness, I realized what was happening. Little Malachi was outside, running laps around the camper while chanting repeatedly, "Papaw...papaw...papaw...papaw..."
He apparently had decided that it was time for papaw to get up and play. Didn't he know it wasn't 7:00 yet?
I remember three years ago, before Malachi was around, when we camped at Salamonie Reservoir. Zeke was two years old then. His parents were sleeping in their tent, but Zeke wanted to sleep in the camper with us, which was fine -- until came the break of dawn.
All was quiet inside the camper. The prompting of my nearly-bursting bladder awoke me from a sound sleep. I laid there as still as possible, considering my options.
If I got up to relieve myself, I would probably awaken Zeke, and then I could forget about getting that last wonderful hour of sleep. On the other hand, if I stayed put, I probably only had another 30 uncomfortable minutes before I wet the bed.
While I laid there debating these issues, I decided to carefully, quietly, slowly turn my head 45 degrees to the left and take a peek at Zeke to see if he was still sleeping soundly. Maybe I could stealthily tippy-toe out to the comfort station and resolve this dilemma.
So I carefully, quietly, slowly turned my head 45 degrees to the left. I opened my eyes ever so gently so I could just barely peek through my eyelashes. And what did I see?
Zeke was standing on his bed, with his little arms crossed and resting on the counter-top, and his chin resting on his arms, staring at me like a cat watching a bird.
"Good morning, Grandpa! Can I have some oatmeal for breakfast?"
I have no idea how long he had been standing there, but I had to give him credit for at least waiting until I moved before he made me get up.
"Yes, Zeke, you can have some oatmeal, but first let's go to the bathroom."
I love my grandchildren. They are sweet and lovable and endlessly entertaining. But I also love my sleep, so there are inevitable conflicts.
Miranda is eight, Zeke is five, Malachi is two. When we have them all at the same time it is like a three-ring circus over here. All we're missing is the clown car and the smell of elephant poop. (Though, on second thought, Malachi is a pretty dependable source of poop smells.)
It doesn't matter how much we ignore their parents' instructions, and keep those kids up past their bedtimes: They will still be up and bouncing off the walls at the crack of dawn, demanding breakfast and a trip to the playground.
At least when we are at home, we don't have to worry about them disturbing the neighbors, since the grand-kids' ruckus-raising can't be heard outside of our walls. But when we go camping, there are problems.
If you have ever been camping at a state park, you understand that there are rules such as: no fireworks, dogs must be on a leash, don't pick the flowers. One of my favorite rules is "Quiet-time hours are from 11 PM to 7 AM."
That is a good rule. After a long day of swimming or hiking or whatever, I am tired, and I need my rest. You can safely assume that your camping neighbors also want to enjoy their peaceful night of sleep.
Just try explaining that to a two-year-old.
On our last camping trip to Brown County, I was soundly sawing logs at 6:00 in the morning. Then I was mercilessly roused from slumber by a persistent noise that kept orbiting around the camper, like when a fly keeps zipping around your head and you get that disconcerting 360 degree "surround-sound" buzz.
As I groggily entered consciousness, I realized what was happening. Little Malachi was outside, running laps around the camper while chanting repeatedly, "Papaw...papaw...papaw...papaw..."
He apparently had decided that it was time for papaw to get up and play. Didn't he know it wasn't 7:00 yet?
I remember three years ago, before Malachi was around, when we camped at Salamonie Reservoir. Zeke was two years old then. His parents were sleeping in their tent, but Zeke wanted to sleep in the camper with us, which was fine -- until came the break of dawn.
All was quiet inside the camper. The prompting of my nearly-bursting bladder awoke me from a sound sleep. I laid there as still as possible, considering my options.
If I got up to relieve myself, I would probably awaken Zeke, and then I could forget about getting that last wonderful hour of sleep. On the other hand, if I stayed put, I probably only had another 30 uncomfortable minutes before I wet the bed.
While I laid there debating these issues, I decided to carefully, quietly, slowly turn my head 45 degrees to the left and take a peek at Zeke to see if he was still sleeping soundly. Maybe I could stealthily tippy-toe out to the comfort station and resolve this dilemma.
So I carefully, quietly, slowly turned my head 45 degrees to the left. I opened my eyes ever so gently so I could just barely peek through my eyelashes. And what did I see?
Zeke was standing on his bed, with his little arms crossed and resting on the counter-top, and his chin resting on his arms, staring at me like a cat watching a bird.
"Good morning, Grandpa! Can I have some oatmeal for breakfast?"
I have no idea how long he had been standing there, but I had to give him credit for at least waiting until I moved before he made me get up.
"Yes, Zeke, you can have some oatmeal, but first let's go to the bathroom."
