The Great Unloading Disaster
We’d been camping in Peninsula State Park in Door County. We’d survived the mosquitoes, eaten soup for two weeks straight (thanks, Lisa), and even Grandma Doris—cruising around on her power scooter—had enjoyed herself. The trip was a success by all counts.
But as soon as we pulled into the driveway, our luck ran out. It was time to unload the camper—otherwise known as “the part no one volunteers for.”
The kids were 10, 7, and 4, so naturally, they were my helpers. The plan was simple: I’d get the bins out of the camper, and they’d carry them into the house and come back for more. Easy, right?
For about two trips, it actually worked. I almost let myself believe we’d become a well-oiled unloading machine.
And then, right on schedule, things started to unravel.
During round three, one kid went in with a load, then kid #2, then kid #3… but no one came back out.
I sat in the camper for a few minutes, waiting patiently. (Okay, semi-patiently.) The bins were piling up by the door, and still—no one came. Finally, my patience expired—along with any illusion that we were still a functioning team.
Since I couldn’t exactly use crutches and carry a bin, I hobbled over to the flower box and boosted myself up to peek through the kitchen window to see what the holdup was.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
There they were—all three kids—parked in front of the TV like we weren’t in the middle of unloading an entire camper. Just lounging there, completely oblivious, as if the camper fairy was going to finish the job for them.
So, in my infinite wisdom, I used the heel of my hand to knock on the window—just to get their attention.
What I didn’t realize was that I must’ve knocked a bit too hard, because my hand went straight through the glass!
Now I was sitting on the flower box, blood spurting from my wrist, still mad that my kids were watching TV instead of helping.
Inside, the kids were frozen. They knew they’d screwed up—but seeing me bleeding that much scared the daylights out of them.
For a split second, no one moved. Then the realization hit, and suddenly there was screaming, crying, and general chaos on both sides of the broken window. I was trying to stay calm, they were trying not to faint, and the camper-unloading operation had officially come to a halt.
Luckily, I didn’t need stitches—but my unloading duties were definitely over for the day.
Unluckily for the kids, that meant they got to help Dad finish the job.
And let’s just say… unloading with Mom was fun. Unloading with Dad was efficient.
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