Nearly 20 years ago, Paul and I took three-year-old Keith and one-month-old Kurt camping. In a tent!
“You don't have to do anything,” Paul said. “Just take care of the baby.”
He convinced me. Keith was devoted to his dad and “helped” him set up camp.
We crawled into our sleeping bags that first night, with Kurt wrapped up in his portable bassinet. The temperature dropped to 45 degrees. I woke, it seemed like every hour, worried that Kurt would be freezing. I moved his bassinet between Paul and I to give him more body heat. I touched his cheek and watched him breathing. He was warm and comfortable.
Early morning, sounds of Kurt cooing woke me. Dawn brought sunshine through the trees nearby and shadows of leaves danced on the tent canvass. Kurt was mesmerized by the visual display. His eyes were wide, and his pudgy arms and legs wiggled with excitement, all the while cooing his pleasure. I laid beside him, silent so I wouldn't disturb his reverie. An hour went by before Kurt decided he was hungry.
Paul kept his word. He took care of everything, with Keith at his side. I sat in a chair and took care of Kurt.
Spring weather has called Kurt to camping every year since.