A Note on the Camping Trip

Yep. Peeing on trees represents the apex of the American camping experience according to my three-year-old son. I am not in a real strong position to argue with him. I, too, like to pee on trees. Oh, there is the fun of farting in the tent (which on this excursion consisted of the back seat of a Honda Odyssey), the joy of throwing sticks into a fire, and the jubilation of burying big bugs, but peeing on a tree trumps it all.

You see, he's only been potty-trained for about three or four months now and my wife is a big stickler for proper aim and hygiene, so the idea of unfettered urination is like Christmas and a Birthday all rolled into one. Here's how it all went down. He looked at me about an hour into the camping trip and indicated that he needed a trip to the facilities. I nodded, grabbed his little hand, and walked about four paces into the middle of the small stand of sagebrush before I declared that this little sagebrush bush would be the potty.

"Daddy, that's not a potty!"

"It is when you're camping, lil' bud."

His little eyes almost popped out of his little head. "I getta pee on the tree?"

"Yep, but ya can't tell Momma."

"Nope, I won't tell no one."

Yeah, that promise lasted about two minutes, 'cause when he got back to the fire he declared to all within shouting distance that he had peed on a tree.

I am a proud papa.