Would I ever go camping again?

Brent asked me tonight if, someday when we have a house again, I would ever go camping again.

It just so happens we are parked at Brent’s mom’s house tonight, in her back yard, about ten feet from where we’ve been storing our Jazz trailer—as in, all the Doheny and Glamis trips, all the laughs, all the fights, all the hangovers, all the dogs, all the… um, and a cat. That trailer served us 11 years of fun camping trips in the traditional sense. We loved that trailer so much it pained us more to leave it behind on this adventure than it pained us to sell our house in many ways. It was camping. It feels like betrayal to be parked so close to it while living in our new RV home.

And here we are.

Would I ever camp again?

Absolutely, but it will never be the same.

We have now spent the last year and a half in campgrounds and RV parks. We’ve sweated reservations and availability for every night and every week of our inhabitance all that time. We’ve arrived in darkness and awakened sometimes to disappointment, finding only desolate accommodations, yet full hook-ups (bonus!), so who are we to complain?

We’ve shared our space with three dogs and two children. There are no mysteries and no secrets. Everyone knows when someone else in the house is pooping.

We rarely let the awnings out and we even more seldom have campfires. We don’t decorate our campsites with lights, tiki’s, or table centerpieces; in fact, we marvel and smile meekly at those weekenders who do all those things. We close the doors and turn on the TV, whereas we used to scoff at those who did that (“Why bother going camping if you’re going to stay inside??!!").

We get it now.

We’re living, not camping.

We immediately identify with the other RVers around us who are void of awnings or outdoor carpets or decorations, who walk their dogs and then go back indoors and close their doors. We develop a sort of neighborhood effect with other nearby full-timers who aren’t outside riding bikes and lighting up campfires when evening rolls around. We realize there are more like us than not, especially during the week when there are no “campers” around to compare.

So, would we ever go camping again?

Have you ever thought about that fantasy life you want? Have you vacationed somewhere and looked at rental homes and real estate? Have you gone as far as looking at jobs near your “dream” locale—that place where you always vacation?

Well, for years and years we dreamed only of Doheny. We camped almost exclusively there and even looked at property nearby. We envisioned selling our Inland Empire home and becoming Orange County “beach folk”, fantasizing shopping at the Smart & Final where we bought booze and firewood, and dreaming of sending our child to the Montessori on PCH.

Well, a wise woman once told me (that’s you, Mom!) that even a dream location becomes just home. It becomes the place you run errands, clean the toilet, and do your laundry. It becomes the place that stresses you out as much as the last home did. It becomes the place you clean your children’s messes, worry about their schooling, and fight to get yourself out the door to buy toilet paper after a long day because you have nothing left to wipe with if you don’t.

Any dream location becomes… life.

Well, our RV honeymoon period has ended. It’s home. No matter where we park it, we have pet peeves to annoy us, errands to run, and toilets to clean. When we’re working, cooking, cleaning, entertaining, disciplining, teaching, and loving under one roof, it doesn’t matter what kind of roof it is. It’s home. We get changes of scenery, but it comes with just as many frustrations and challenges.

Sometimes I wake up from next-to-no sleep after tending to a baby/toddler all night and watch the sunrise from our fifth wheel bedroom window, grateful in my glazed over state enough to wish I had the energy for a walk. I stress the scheduled meetings and events of my virtual workday and I literally tiptoe downstairs and prep the coffee machine with ninja-like silence to stoke any last embers of silence before someone awakes or wants out to potty (dogs, not people—we haven’t stooped to that point, at least very often). I wish, in those moments, that I was camping—vacationing from the norm—and making a point to enjoy each day for what it is.

The thing is, we are living the norm, albeit living it untraditionally. Every day has all the normal challenges while stacking up more than enough not-so-normal challenges. The tanks need draining, the water needs filling, the ants are finding their way in to the pantry, the staples are wiggling their way out of the paneling, the small messes instantly become huge cluttered messes, the laundry is piling up, and it means we need to find a campground with a laundry facility or we dedicate an entire day to laundry. And even still, there is work to be done, school and learning to be accomplished, diapers to change, dog poo to pick up, and plenty and plenty of messes to clean up.

It’s exhausting.

Hell, yes, I would go camping again! I’d love to let our awnings out, have campfires, and decorate our campsite again. I’d gladly endure a hangover for a sunrise walk, grateful for new locations without the daily grind to tend to. I’d gladly abandon every day responsibility to enjoy where I am and what I’m doing, spending less time worrying about what I’m supposed to be doing and enjoying what I’m doing.

I wish I was camping.

So, though it would seem I’ve had my fill of camp hosts, reservations, parking, leveling, setting up, breaking down, and moving days, I’d relive it all again as a camper rather than a full-timer.

Reality check here—I love seeing new things, waking to new places, and living with basic amenities. I love that we have what we need all on four wheels towed behind our truck. I love listening for new sounds and seeing new animals, enjoying a new back yard for a week or two at a time.

And yes, I’d gladly take all of the above without the daily grind that comes with trying to take in these things while making a living and living life all at once.

I love what we’re doing, but make no mistake about it: no matter how ideal the life, the romanticism is purely relative.

Would I change anything? Not for a hot second! Would I sell this lifestyle to anyone on an idyllic impression? Not unless I had resent for that person. Would I do it all again? Hell, yes! Would I, for a second, picture it as ideal? No. Would I abandon it all, never to experience it again? Hell no!

So, would I camp again? Abso-f***-ing-lutely.