We've been camping before. We camped growing up, went camping on our honeymoon, and have spent the past 11 years of marriage camping every summer. Pregnancy, small babies, heat, rain, and snow—nothing has kept us away.
We always kick-off the summer with our anniversary camping trip. This year was no different, and we made plans to camp this past weekend not far from where we got married up the Poudre canyon.
With both of us working, and Matt not getting off until late in the afternoon the day we were to leave—I knew I’d have to start preparing and packing early in the week. I spent Thursday running around gathering items, replacing missing or broken items, and making sure we had everything we needed. It was hot, and the kids were tired of being lugged in and out of the car. I got a lot done though, and I was feeling tired, yet proud. Much was already packed, and I had made no less than 5 lists to keep us organized.
The next day I had to work, and somehow managed to get up & ready early only to realize I arrived at work without the power cord for my laptop, and oh—I was supposed to be at a meeting on the north side of town. Whoops. I headed to the meeting. It was short, and allowed me the opportunity to go to the grocery store for the last minute items we needed for the trip.
I came home to work the rest of the morning, but not long after I came home I realized Owen was short on his CF enzymes. We didn’t have enough to make it through the weekend. Great. I frantically made several phone calls trying to get Owen’s new prescription filled locally (it’s not something most pharmacies carry). The only local pharmacist that had it in stock didn’t have enough to fill the prescription. I said that was fine—truly, I just needed twenty to make it. They said they had about 600 of the 800 and I could pick it up in an hour—at 12:15 p.m. Great, I said, I’ll be there. I reassessed my plans for the day, fed the kids lunch, loaded them in the car, and headed to Walgreens. Our fantastic one-way system in Loveland bypasses the pharmacy. I was cut-off twice in the process and ended up going the wrong way, unable to turn around because of construction. Traffic was at a stand still, and yep, it’s hot. Owen, our notorious back-seat driver continues to give me directions.
“GO, mom, GO!”
“I can’t Owen. The cars are stopped.” The cars move an inch and stop.
“Go, mom, GO!”
“Seriously, Owen, when the cars move I will go. Please stop yelling at mom.” Seconds pass.
“Go, mom, GO!”
“Owen, it’s time to not talk anymore while mommy is driving.”
I finally get to the pharmacy at 12:45 p.m. We walk in, and get in line. The “uber” friendly lady behind the counter takes my name, and then starts searching every counter, basket, nook, and cranny for our prescription. Owen and Eden are sitting as patiently as toddlers can in the waiting area chairs. Eden is making sure to say “HI” at least 3 times to every person that comes within shouting distance.
The oh-so-sweet lady (please understand I’m being excessively sarcastic about this woman’s attitude) says that it was a partial-fill and it will take a few more minutes.
Uh, didn’t we know that over an hour ago—I thought to myself, but patiently sat down with my kids. More than 30 minutes pass, and my kids are now having “races” down the Walgreens aisles.
I march back up to the counter. The fantastic lady says to me “Are you still here?”
WHAT THE CRAP! It’s a big window lady—you can SEE me and my kids trying to not tear apart the store—you can HEAR them talking to EVERYONE. WHY THE CRAP WOULD WE BE HANGING OUT IF WE HAD WHAT WE NEEDED?
“Yeah, we’re still here.” I say. Breathe, Tamara, breathe. Eden is now sitting on the counter, and Owen is touching anything he can get his hands on, but the lovely woman goes about her business, assisting the drive-thru and answering the phone. I stare in wonder at her and the pharmacists who don’t even seem to see me standing there with two kids who are in desperate need of nap time.
“Excuse me,” I say to the—I’m assuming—pharmacist. “Can you tell me how much longer it’s going to be? We’re trying to leave town, and these kiddos need to take a nap.”
“What’s your name?”
“Cramer. Owen Cramer. With a C.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s a partial fill.” BREATHE IN. BREATHE OUT.
“Yes, we knew that over two hours ago when I called it in. I was told you would have it ready at 12:15 p.m. I’ve been waiting patiently. This is becoming a bit ridiculous.” He speaks to another pharmacist and they start looking on the shelves. He turns to me and tries to explain to me their billing procedures and why this is apparently so complicated. I nod my head, but he can see that I’m beyond perturbed. He gives me a bottle, and says “no charge.” HA—what he really means is that my insurance covers it all—I know that for a FACT.
What’s truly sad is that this is the 2nd time this pharmacy has done a partial-fill for us. They never have enough on hand to do the full.
When we made it home I realized I had forgotten to eat, and it was nearly 2 p.m. I tossed the kiddos in the tub, and grabbed a sandwich. When I finally got them down for naps, I seriously tackled packing. Gear, clothes, and food—all organized, most—if not all, packed. I lay down and started to doze. No sooner had I shut my eyes than Eden started crying. It was just 4 p.m.—a bit early, for going down so late, but I quickly became aware of the problem.
“Crap,” I said as I looked down at my now wet chest. In the frenzy of lunch and pharmacy roulette, I had neglected to nurse my baby. She’s hungry; I’m now in need of a dry shirt. I get Eden up, and nurse. We cuddle on the couch. I wasn’t expecting Matt for another hour, so I knew I had some time before I needed to finish packing the cooler. I was wrong.
