This week, effectively a getaway up north with O, has been wonderful. With just the two of us, after work/camp hours we moseyed over to a park play date with friends, deployed all the beach toys without certain brothers demanding O take turns, and enjoyed an indulgent sushi dinner at a restaurant with a dress code (aside: does a Mickey Mouse sweater qualify as business casual?). But there was one thing we’d been talking about since the bros left on Sunday: a beach bonfire with s’mores.

Tonight, the final night of our week away, was go-time. I had been hyping it all week. I had kept the skewers unpacked and out all week for this one night. O had successfully resisted raiding the marshmallows and bars of chocolate all week in anticipation of this evening.

Well, among the many things Dave & I tag-team for efficiency’s sake… evidently starting a bonfire is one of those things. On many an evening, I have put the boys to bed and walked outside to enjoy a cocktail over our patio bonfire. Unfortunately, until tonight, it did not quite occur to me that I have never, in fact, started said fire.

So there I am, setting up our beach’s fire pit with pre-cut beach wood and — let’s be real — a bona fide fire log… or two. I brought my Bic lighter. My 4 year old is excitedly remarking that he hopes I can roast the marshmallows quickly so he can eat his s’mores. But it’s windy. It’s so, so windy. I burn off the first fire log’s wrapper and nothing has caught. I think maybe it’s the lighter that’s not holding a flame? So I pull my 4 year old away from his cache of sweets and go back to get a new lighter. But when we return, it’s the same result. And even with me shielding the wind with a few flatter planks of wood, and starting a new fire log, and explicitly reading the instructions on where to light the fire log… it’s a pretty sad showing until the wind extinguishes it entirely.

At this point we’re over 30 minutes into our venture, with nothing to show for it except that O has consumed much of our chocolate, wandered away to explore the riverbed rocks and see if the local ducks are home, and asked to call Dad to tell him he wishes he “was here to roast the marshmallows faster.”

But then I catch a break, and the fire log lights properly, and the wood on top catches and… I’m just saying, I give Tom Hanks a run for his money in this scene.

We ate exactly 2 s’mores (because that’s all that was left of the marshmallows), and I felt as though I was robbed of something primal when I had to use lake water to quell the last of the wind-swept flames 15 minutes after this picture was taken.

I feel as though I should not count this as some kind of survivalist achievement, and yet I can’t help but close the day thinking… Bear Grylls might need to watch his back.

Related: unspoken arrangements in partnership // quality 1:1 time with a child.