Two days after the stitches incident, we were scheduled to take a quick camping trip out to the coast. In that I've been working long hours this summer, and we were hit with that nasty flu, we haven't been able to get out and do much with the kids. In years past, we took vacations to Disneyland and Lake Tahoe. This year, the neighborhood pool or a Target run was about as exciting as it got. Even the county fair fell on a weekend where I was sick as a dog and physically unable to traipse around hot tarmac for several hours at a stretch.

So, the fact that the kids had an at-home, pretty boring summer with the exception of a few day trips orchestrated and carried off by my parents, I've been feeling pretty cruddy about my performance as a parent. Thank God for the stitches episode. At least the kids could say they got to see the inside of the ER!

Once again, my parents stepped up to the plate and booked a campsite for the last few days of summer. We drove out to the campground mid-day on Sunday, with the plan of staying two nights, and returning home on Tuesday. My parents, seasoned camping pros, picked an awesome campsite and proceeded to get the whole place set up with our inept but enthusiastic assistance.

The kids spent a good hour sliding down the sand dunes and hooting like gibbons. Only after the fact did it dawn on me to check my wounded kid's bandage. Um, whoops.

Removal of a sandy bandage, plus washing a freshly stitched incision to clear the sand off of the cut while restraining a screaming five year old in your lap? Not for the faint-hearted. I mean, I don't blame the kid one bit, but shuddup already!

Once that little bit of drama was taken care of, we ate a quick lunch and headed down to the beach. We played with whoopie-doopies (that's the latin name for those giant seaweed things) and the kids dodged the waves.

I lay on a blanket like a beached whale and sunburned the fronts of my calves.

Back at the campsite, my mom took the kids to pillage the surrounding campsites, to see what had been left behind by departing campers. They returned with a really cool fire-poker thing, and were pleased as punch about it.

That night, after a great dinner of lasagne and a mug of wine, we sat around the campfire and watched the the kids put on a light show with a few emergency light sticks.

The husband spent the entire time poking the fire. Poke, poke, poke. I don't know what was so fun about all that, but he was totally into it. Shortly after dinner, we noticed that the people in the campsite next to us had returned. My mom got all sheepish and said - "Oh! Uh, I think we took their fire poker." Whoops again.

We had brought the dog along, and one moment she was sitting with us by the fire, and the next minute she shot off behind one of the tents. A moment later she was back, smelling strongly of skunk.

GREAT.

What to do, what to do? It seemed like an indirect hit - she was stanky, but it hadn't gotten in her eyes. The kids did the sensible thing and went straight into the tent and to bed.

The hubs, with blood in his eye, grabbed a flashlight and strode off into the darkness from whence the stank had come. I don't exactly know what the plan was, but in my universe, one does not go looking for skunks. Especially in the dark. I yelled "Hey, what are you going to do? Illuminate it?"

Back at the fire, cooler heads prevailed as the rest of the grownups tried to work out the logical thing to do.

We could try to wash her!
No, then she'll just be wet and stinky.
We could tie her to a tree for the night!
But then again, she'll probably go after a skunk/raccoon/whatever, plus she'll cry all night.
We could take her home to our house!
But then the car will reek of skunk, and we just had it detailed.

This went on for about 30 minutes, while we all did our best from touching the dog, who had decided that she needed to sit on somebody, like NOW.

Finally a decision was made. I had to get up in the wee hours and rush home to work until lunchtime anyway , so we wrapped the dog in the scuzziest beach towel in our arsenal and settled down for the crappiest night of sleep on record.

Cold and stiff, the hubs and I detangled ourselves from the sleeping bags at 5 am and after a quick pre-dawn jaunt to the toilets, we grabbed the dog and headed for home.

We put her on her tie-out in the yard, and I got to work before 6 am. After a quick shower, the husband decided that he wanted to blow off work, and he left for the campsite again. I stayed and worked until about 1 pm, and then got back on the road to the coast, leaving the dog staked out in the fresh air.

Back at the campsite, I greeted the family, read a People magazine, ate a bunch of trail mix and took a slobbering, deranged nap in the tent. We put on 700 layers of clothing and sat around the fire as the fog rolled into the campsite. The hubs departed for home, and after a few campfire songs where no one could remember more than a verse and a half, and about half a bag of marshmellows, we tucked the kids in for the night.

We had planned to stay up playing cards and talking, but my early morning hours have turned me into an early-to-bed kind of girl, and I barely made it an hour past the kids' bedtime before I was nodding off in my chair.

Another cold, uncomfortable night ended at the break of dawn. The kids got up and we helped break down camp. By 10 am, I was on the road back home, and back to work by 11 am.

The kids had a marvelous time, sandy wounds, skunks and all. I can't say the same for the dog, but as for me - well, at least I get to say I did SOMETHING with the kids this summer.

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Want to hear about one other sweet episode from this summer? Check out my what happened when I agreed to review M&M's Premiums for BlogHer.