City Kids

The other day, while walking with a friend who grew up here but now lives rurally, we noted how different a place can seem when you don’t spend your life there. For her kids its a difficult adjustment to suburban sidewalks, driveways with danger and the need to use the restroom inside the house (that last one is totally my favorite. Nothing like a mother’s mortification when it has to do with bathroom habits and the great outdoors. If he’s still dropping trou when he’s sixteen in semi-public places, that’s a different story. As a toddler, it is pretty much awesome).

For my kids? Well, they may have called this camping:

This may have been the very first time we let them roast things over an open fire:

They were fine with the Hebrew National, all beef, hot dogs with mustard and buns and all, but they did not love the marshmallows. Why was it crunchy? Why was it brown? Why did the pink ones suddenly taste awful? (They were right about that last one, but I thought the pink marshmallows were gross from the get go)

And then they played outside until it was time to shower up and lay down their sleepy heads. Nothing tastes as good as playing with dad feels.

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