There we were, walking in a cloud of dust a la Pigpen on our way to the gigantic soup tureen also knows as the campground pool when Katie decided that she had to use the bathroom, again.
Note that this was approximately the 6th time the girl had needed to relieve herself in just as many hours.
As we were waiting for her outside the bathroom facilities, otherwise known as spider-infested bathrooms that she made sure to tell us "smell really good," a little family of three was walking down the path.
There was the mom, holding her sweating bottle of Mountain Dew (I don't think I have ever seen anyone over the age of 15 drinking that stuff . . . oh, wait - except for my HUSBAND!). There was the dad, water toys in hand, towels slung over his shoulder, white ankles exposed. And there was the son. He was about 3, scuffing his leetle Croc-adorned feet along in the dust, kicking up even more dirt than we had. He had a few dribbles down his shirt, a mass of dirt smeared on his cheeks and his hair was looking like it would become dreadlocks in a matter of moments.
I am pretty sure he also had a full diaper under his shorts, but I cannot confirm this.
I smiled at the Mt. Dew Momma as she passed, glancing up at my boys who, miraculously after eight whole days of camping, still looked reasonably clean.
"Boys!" she said as she passed, shaking her head in each direction.
"It only gets worse," I said, acknowledging the shared emotion between us, me and the Mt. Dew Momma.
The horrified look on her face suggested that I may have said too much.
"But you just have one, you'll have it easy," I back-peddled, not wanting to upset her with my knowledge of the grass stains, boogers and smelly boy stuff that awaits her in the future.
She nodded, raised her Mt. Dew as if toasting us all and said, "Here's to the laundry!"
Here's to the laundry!
And here's to the boys.