It pays to sit around in your underwear blogging

The last time we met, my family and I were about to go camping and I promised some exciting news upon my return. Well, I'm back.

And here's the news: I am now a blogger for Baby Center's Momformation channel (just between us, I think "Momformation" is kind of a lame name, but the site is great). I get to do exactly what I do here, there. And they pay me for it. Which is more than I can say for you people.

I'll be there four times a week. On Fridays I'll pick some things out on Etsy and encourage you to buy them. The rest of the time I'll just be rambling on about me and my kids. But in a funny and erudite way.

I do hope you'll join me. Really. I'll even post links to all my posts there, here.

And I'll still be posting here sometimes so you should be sure to check back. We can talk about all the things we can't talk about with them. We can bitch about working for the man.

Oh, and about that camping trip. You can read all about it here. And no, the nail scissors didn't turn out to be necessary, but boy was I happy to have the alarm clock/ipod dock.

Family Camping: Take III

It's 6 am and I am up baking biscuits. They are from a can, but still, it is nearly impossible to express how unlike me this is. In my natural state I sleep until 9 and go out for brunch. Alas. My natural state is long gone.

I am up at this ungodly hour (it gives me headache to be up before 7) because Maggie woke up to announce her need to pee at 5 and the thought demons took this as the cue to worm their way into my consciousness, where they enjoyed a rowdy game of monkey-in-the-middle until I gave up on further sleep. Everyone else in the house is still snoozing away.

I'm keyed up because tomorrow morning we leave bright and early for Camp Mather. It's a family camp up near Yosemite that only residents of San Francisco can go to. You have to enter a lottery to get a spot. We did. We won. And now I spend my dawn hours making mental lists of things like nail scissors and duct tape and bug spray and all the other 5,011 things that will supposedly help us to actually enjoy this experiment in group family camping.

As many of you know, I've been scarred. I was never a big camper to begin with (I like soft pillows and showers too much). Then I went camping with one-year-old twins. Now I get the tremors when anyone mentions the words "Coleman Stove." Seriously, our track record as a family is bad.

But this is supposed to be better. It's all sing-alongs and lifeguarded lakes and cafeteria dining (no Coleman stoves!). And our kids are four now, not one, or three. And we have a cabin and I am bringing down comforters and Christmas lights and a couple of cute throw rugs (I kid you not), so I think we have a chance. I'm counting on it actually. Because, honestly, I really need a vacation. And a little sleep.

I'll be back in a week or so with tales to tell and an exciting announcement. I'll let you know if those nail scissors came in handy. In the meantime may your days be filled with the comforts of modern civilization.

Camp at your own risk

When the kids were not quite one-and-a-half we went on a family camping trip to Mt. Lassen with my dad and brother. I also happened to be writing about it for Sunset. The trip was an unmitigated disaster from the filth-encrusted toddlers smearing their own excrement around the tent, to my normally low-key dad telling my brother to go "f**k himself." I cried all the way down from the summit, but not half as loudly as the kid I was carrying on my back.

Nine months later, the story came out, pretty and slick as can be.

Mt. Lassen, 2007 (total b.s.)

We haven't spent a night in a tent since. But on Thursday, we decided to give it another go. One night. Close to home. We were scarred, but ready to heal.

I'm not sure why it is so important to us that we camp with the kids. I don't even like it that much. I like the idea of it. I wish I liked it. But really it seems like a whole lot of work topped off with a terrible night's sleep. I prefer a nice day hike followed by a good meal, a warm bath, and a soft bed. My step-dad calls me "Mrs. Davey Crockett." It's ironic, in case you didn't get that part.

But I do like the outdoors and who am I to instill in my offspring my prissy dislike of dirt? So off we went, to China Camp State Park. Camping.

A word of advice: unless you have the types of three-year-olds who will run off to poke things with sticks and explore creek beds without you, don't take them camping for a while. You will be busy setting up the tent-Mahal you borrowed from your friend, and trying to start a fire, and dropping your pillow in the dirt, and blowing up the effing inflatable mattress. All the while your demanding preschoolers will be whining for food you did not bring along, peeing in their pants, tracking dust into the tent, absconding with the pocket knife, and asking if it is time to go home. You will fight with your spouse and yell at your kids and your feet will be cold once the sun goes down. You will deeply regret not bringing alcohol.

Sure, the campground is lovely, set as it is among the Bay Laurels on a bluff overlooking the Bay. And, yes, there were those pleasant 10 minutes when you got to point out the raccoon tracks and the flattened grass where the deer sleep.

But I recommend you think hard and you think long about whether all the work, the resulting loads of laundry, and the massive and unprecedented post-trip meltdowns were worth it. Because I suspect they are not.

Then again, maybe you don't have twins.