The Joys of Camping

I am shivering beneath a urine-soaked sleeping bag on a poorly inflated air mattress; my toe, which I recently broke by kicking Trevor too hard, is throbbing and my lower back is aching from the rigors of lifting Noel in and out of the pack n play. I'm lying there listening to some yahoos (it sounds like they're about six inches from my head) going on about f-ing this, f-ing that, as they have been going on all night. I went up to Moonshine with my friend Betsy, my two kids, and her three, leaving the men to follow the next day. It took us three hours to just get out of town; what with all the items necessary to stave off children's whining or certain death, we couldn't have squeezed a bottle of valium in her minivan. (Tsk, tsk.) Then we had to set up our tents (at least she had a clue, I could barely comprehend that the blue pole goes in the blue slot, the green one in the green slot), feed kids, put them to bed. So finally, I have no idea what time it was, I'm lying in the tent, hoping baby Noel won't wake up for the nineteenth time (I don't think she's a fan of camping; either that or her ears were freezing off). I am planning my elaborate, early escape from the trip, and willing morning to come so the nightmare will end. I could've kept smiling, even with the loud rednecks and infants, the aches and discomforts and aromas, but for one thing that pushed me right over the edge: the tent was positioned in such a way that the restroom light on a motion sensor shone directly in my eye.
Moonshine, never again.