Here is what I’m worrying about today:

1) My husband has taken the children camping.

2) In a tent.

3) Without me.

The camping itself isn’t worrying, I suppose. My parents took my sister and I camping all the time and it was awesome, and I love the idea of doing the same with my children. But, see, in that scenario, it’s a two-parent camping trip. I can’t imagine camping alone with my children in our backyard, let alone out in the wild. And not because I worry about all the dangers that wilderness potentially poses to children, but rather because I fear that my children – who sometimes, as I have said many a time, remind one of rabid honey badgers – will be too at home in the wild, and that the wild will call forth their inner feral natures, and that they will overpower their father and leave him tied to a tree or something while they race through the woods terrorizing woodland creatures.

And/or interrogating them.

The alternative possibility is, I suppose, that they will spend a couple of days working their inner honey badgers out of their systems, and I will return home from New York to exhausted and placid creatures who, after days of living in the wild without Barney and Dora and mac and cheese on demand, have come to appreciate the finer things of indoor life.

Or not. I’m guessing not. I’m guessing someone might need to send out a search party for my husband.