I take my grandchildren to Grandma Camp each summer. We go to a place that has camp sites, streams and a lake with canoes and swimming, a water slide, hiking in the woods, and horses.
I was roasting marshmallows on the camp stove because a fire ban prohibited camp fires. The Littles were kicking a soccer ball around with their two new best friends from the next camp over.
Sometimes a synchronicity of events happens that makes a memory.
A wild kick sent the soccer ball hurtling toward me at the same time my marshmallow caught on fire. When I turned to kick the ball back to the kids, the flaming marshmallow went flying. But not far. The burning ball of goo turned a spectacular somersault in the air above my head and landed on my right boob.
All of a sudden, every eye was focused on my right boob going up in flames.
I swatted the burning blob onto the ground and stomped the fire out. My shirt was sticky and slightly singed. The fire didn’t make it through the fabric, which was nice. My hair didn’t go up like a roman candle. Also nice.
It did make an impression on the Littles. When Jazz Boy’s mom called that evening to tell him “good night” and she asked how his day was, he said, “great, except for, you know, the fire.”
“Fire, what fire?” My daughter is a bit of a worrier. I grabbed the phone.
“It was just a little fire, flaming marshmallow. No big deal, sweetheart. We’re having a great time. See you in a couple of days. Here Lovey, tell Mommy about our canoe ride today.”
Real disaster averted.
I adore my grandchildren. I love spending time with them at Grandma Camp. Best of all, we make memories that will last forever.