Sticky Fingers

Yesterday I returned from my first Father's and Son's camp out as a father.

The two women who know me best were giddy at the thought of me camping with two young boys.

My Mom recalls the day I received my Eagle Scout award and promptly announced I would never go camping again. And with few exceptions I haven't.

You see I'm a little OCD about the dirt, lack of showers and especially the smell of campfires permeating everything right down to my hair. Since receiving my Eagle my nights ensconced in 600 thread count sheets at the Ritz Carlton and Four Seasons hotels outnumber the restless nights lying in a tent 10 to 1.

Mindy had multiple reasons to savor my first foray back into the world of camping. Not only did she take delight in the torment I would endure trying to keep clean with two small boys, but she couldn't wait to control the remote for an entire evening.

So...

We arrived early and set-up camp without any problems. I must confess that given our location, right on the beach, I shouldn't have had much to complain about.

This is a view out of our tent.

My only responsibility for the weekend was to provide the Smores for our ward. As it got dark we headed to the fire pits and I began assembling and helping kids create their gooey creations. Garrett (4) and Ryan (3) began circling the fires like moths. They became oblivious to anything other than poking the fire, throwing whatever they could find into the fire, or catching a marshmallow on fire and running around trying to smear the scalding confection onto any fool who ventured in their path.

Initially I kept my Smore making station under control. But by the end the hordes of kids high on sugar had overtaken me. In particular, having touched so many melted marshmallows, my fingers were coated with the sticky residue of burnt marshmallows.

At that exact moment Garrett rushed up to me and loudly announced he had to go to the bathroom. I responded as any good camper would:

Go find a bush.

But he responded, with rising anxiety in his voice:

No. I have to go poo.

Now the stakes were raised. I knew that look. I had seconds to get Garrett to an appropriate place.

We rushed off to a nearby porta-potty. I grabbed some toilet paper in an attempt to clean things off a bit but I had forgotten about my sticky fingers.

So there I sat in the john, holding a flashlight between my arm, toilet paper stuck to my fingers, and Garrett desperate to get started.

Ahh. The memories of my camping days flooded back to me.

Nevertheless. I shall return. Because that's what Dads do.