Joel Stein with his son, Laszlo, camping in their backyard.
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As we got into our sleeping bags, Cassandra showed up and started messing around with the zippers to let in air and rearranging things to make it all civilized-like. Eventually she left, and Laszlo started a game called "Let me check if it's morning yet," which he kept losing. Meanwhile, I learned that without a screen to stare at, I--unlike Laszlo--can easily fall asleep at 8:30.
Cassandra, who could hear us from inside--which is a problem the National Wildlife Federation needs to look into--kept texting me about coming inside. She was worried about spiders, ants, bears, the cold, the tent getting too stuffy and Laszlo suffocating against the side of it. Laszlo was worried about our tent sliding down the hill or falling down, which were much more reasonable fears considering that extra pole still in the box.
At 9:30, Laszlo fell asleep. I was pretty thrilled with the whole experience--seeing our tree-shrouded backyard hill at night, looking up at the stars, being so close to my son, who still twirls his hair to fall asleep like he did in his first week. Then at 6 a.m., Laszlo woke up, ready to do morning backyard stuff, which was something I didn't even know about. It involved collecting sticks, yelling at bad guys and the realization that you don't need puberty for bad breath.
Still, we both loved it. Time stretched out longer, our attention was centered, and technically, he won the "Is it morning yet?" game. More important, I'd risen to Secretary Jewell's challenge and proved Cassandra wrong. Unfortunately, the price of that victory is that Laszlo wants to do it again, this time with all the poles.