A long weekend and a great forecast had us heading to the cottage for three nights, where we were joined by some of our city neighbours for barbecues, campfires and lots of laughs. We have an enormous deck on the steep slope behind the cottage where a previous owner had a hot tub, and it seemed like a natural spot for a tent. The three boys opted for the tent, our neighbours happily claimed the bunkroom and it was all good.
On our first night, just before bedtime, Little Urchin (Lu) was feeling a bit queasy, and since a late night, some pop and snacks and a lot of excitement has been known to affect him in profound ways, we made up a bed for him in the living room, handed him an empty ice cream bucket, and were all tucked up in our beds, bunks or tent by around 11 p.m.
At 3:30 a.m., I came wide awake at the sound of something moving between our bedroom window and the tent platform. Since Big Urchin (Bu) is known to sleep walk, I immediately had visions of him crashing down the embankment. So I insisted that Cottager go and have a look. He found his glasses, and a flashlight and his shoes and toiled up the dark trail, reporting back that all was well. Next morning, the kids remarked that an unfinished bag of nacho chips they’d left outside had mysteriously disappeared, and we chalked it up to feckless kids and a happy raccoon.
Next night, and there were three kids in the tent, until Bu appeared to advise us that Lu had tossed his cookies in the “door to Narnia” – their name for the box built to hold the mechanical offshoots of the long-vanished hot tub. So Cottager found his glasses and his flashlight and his shoes, and escorted the over-excited camper down the trail to his waiting trundle bed and bucket, and we all went back to bed.
…Until about an hour later when the phone rang and I answered to hear Bu whispering urgently and only semi -coherently from his cellphone (yes, he got my old one -pay and talk)
“Neighbour’s son was telling me . . . true story . . . Discovery Channel . . . attacked by . . . attracted by the vomit on his shirt . . . . hear a noise . . . can we sleep on the floor? . . . please come and get us . . .
So Cottager found his glasses, shoes, flashlight and went back up the trail to rescue the boys, whom he found sitting in the dark, jack-knives at the ready. Meanwhile, I stayed in bed and had a really good laugh. You see, while we sometimes debate and fine-tune our parental roles, Cottager is and will ALWAYS be the go-to guy for situations involving vomit – seeking monsters.
The Cottagers 