Camping is supposed to be fun, right?

So why am I always having to convince myself that I'm having it? Fun, that is. Consider the prep work:

Plan meals, write a grocery list, shop, pack.
Drag bags out of the recesses of the closets.
Pack:
Clothes for the kids.
Toys for the kids.
Comfort items for the kids.
Various accoutrements for the baby. (Somewhere to sit -- saucer... somewhere to be in case it's muddy - pack n play... backpack carrier for hiking...)
Diapers for two. Wipes for two.
My clothes and toiletries. The Papa's clothes and toiletries. (Yes. He could do this, but I like to be sure he has his toothbrush!)

Clean the house before we leave, because there's nothing I hate more than coming home to a mess.

Make sure all of the camping gear is packed. Don't forget toilet paper!

Drive an hour to a campsite. Set up the camper. Roast weenies and marshmallows while choking on campfire smoke. Sleep (if we want to call it that) on a less than comfortable bed with a baby attached to my boob all night since she won't sleep in the pack n play.

Wake up the next morning to rolling thunder and sit under a tarp (pat myself on the back for remembering the tarp) to wait out the rain for about 4 hours before deciding to pack up and come home.

And I wonder why I find myself muttering, "We're making memories here! This is FUN. Really."