Murphey’s Law of family travel: No matter how practical, methodical, prepared, and organized you are, be prepared for a zinger that will cause your head to ache, your back to break, and your soul to whimper, if just a little.

Campsite 529 was absolutely perfect in every aspect. Flat, not too far from the bathrooms, within sight of the playground and the camp host.

Perfect.

Until it got dark.

No, that wasn’t the moment that some deranged ax murderer started stalking the campsite. Such a menace would have never stood a chance near Campsite 529. What we failed to notice during the scenic, beautifully sun-lit day was an extremely large, extremely bright lamppost towering directly over our sweet home away from home. We waited, convinced that an automatic timer would switch the beacon off as the night wore on. As the hours ticked away, however, the phosphorescent sentry continued to glow, burning its yellow haze into our corneas.

By ten o’clock, the older children were tearfully bemoaning the ineffectiveness of the 50 glow sticks that they insisted on breaking open the minute we set up camp. Our tent had become a front row seat at an insect rock concert, their seemingly gigantic skeletons plinking loudly against the hard plastic shell of the world’s biggest bug lamp. Worst of all, nothing could convince the baby that, though it looked like it was noon and therefore time to play, it was actually several hours past her (very, very, necessary) bedtime.

Whether setting up or taking down, campsite work is arduous. The thought of moving our carefully placed tent and our ten million other belongings to a new campsite filled us with dread. We listed the pros and cons of such a move. We hemmed…we hawed… As we attempted to convince the baby to sleep with yet another round of off-key lullabies, my husband looked at me, the red veins in his eyes clearly visible, and offered the dreaded “I’ll do whatever you want to do.”

I could bear it no longer. The thought of spending another night cocooned in the gruesome haze was too onerous to bear. We had to move.

Once my watch told me that the sun had risen, I searched for a new home. I found just one open site. It was on the opposite side of the campground, it was not flat, it was far away from the playground, and it was even further away from the bathrooms. The kicker: between it and the big beacon of light there were trees. Lots and lots of leaf-filled, light shielding trees.

I could feel the husband’s unspoken grumbles as I walked him to this less than idyllic location. Somehow, I channelled Mary Poppins from deep within my psyche. With “A Spoonful of Sugar” ringing in my ears, I was playful, I was entertaining, I was helpful. I was even NICE. Like, to everyone. And they ate it up.

We carelessly tossed our gear into the van. The kids became miniature sherpas, canvassing bags, clothing, towels, and sacks of food across the campground. My husband shoved the half-broken-down tent in the back of the van and drove it, back door open, to our new campsite. The entire process was complete in 30 minutes. A campsite establishment record. We grilled up a lazy man’s hot dog dinner that night, shook up another 50 glow sticks and waited. It got dark. Then, it got darker. The light from across the campground at Campsite 529 could not make it through the tree line to assault our tent. It got so dark we needed to use both our lanterns just to get the kids into their pajamas.

By the time my husband and I fell asleep that night, I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. I groped blindly in the dark for the bed next to mine and touched upon the best possible payoff of changing plans on the fly:  the baby, deliciously, completely, and utterly, asleep.