REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 72: Chapter 72

The morning of the Great Escape—err, Picnic Day—came like a whirlwind.
Seven children. Three large, loud, overly-prepared moms. And two packed vehicles full of snacks, tents, clothes, toys, power banks, a Bluetooth speaker, and emotional instability.
I had my SUV, the kids packed like gremlins with glittered backpacks, water bottles, and a suspicious number of iPads. Jhing Jhing proudly rolled out with their newly acquired van—a majestic, candy-blue beast that had Mylene co-piloting while feeding crackers to a screaming toddler and yelling, “DON’T PUT THAT IN YOUR NOSE!”
Before we left, I texted Joe Smith:
“We’re taking the herd out for fresh air. Need traffic cleared. Also, fastest GPS route. I don’t want to be stuck near the cow farm again. It smelled like betrayal.”
Joe replied with a thumbs-up emoji and a secure GPS link marked:
“Route C: No traffic, minimum cow sightings, high picnic potential.”
He even had his men “accidentally” schedule road maintenance on alternate roads to ensure smooth passage. Now that’s dedication. My criminal empire might be silent, but efficient? Always.
The drive was… well, chaotic serenity. Kids screaming the lyrics to Baby Shark and BTS, snacks flying like confetti, someone spilled chocolate milk on my backup phone, and I swear Mylene was singing off-key on purpose.
Then going to the mountain, we rented a camper van the size of a military tank and left Jhing Jhing’s van and my SUV at the little inn. Loaded with food, six crates of juice boxes, eight bottles of wine (for emergencies), and Jhing Jhing’s questionable vegan brownies that may or may not have contained something herbal.
We dressed the girls in matching pink. Tied glow sticks to everyone because we learned from last time. The drive to the mountains was long, winding, and full of arguments over K-pop songs, the ethics of glitter slime, and why one kid kept calling the GPS voice “Grandma.”
By the time we reached the campsite, it was already raining sideways.
Jhing Jhing tried to set up a tent using dental floss. Mylene got attacked by a squirrel that stole her lipstick. And I, somehow, found myself waist-deep in a muddy pond because someone thought they saw Elsa’s castle.
Still. We laughed. Because even with ex-lovers investigating crimes, kids throwing marshmallows at deer, and a raccoon stealing our wine cooler… We were alive. We were together. And for now? That was enough.
But the mountain?
Oh, the mountain was glorious.
Nestled two towns over, it was an underrated gem known as Wren’s Hilltop. The campsite sat between clusters of pine trees, with a semi-flat plateau ideal for pitching tents and telling ghost stories you later regret. There was a narrow waterfall not far from the site, and a crooked wooden sign labeled “No bears since 2014” that we all agreed to ignore.
Naturally, the moment we arrived, it started raining.
Not the angry storm type. No. It was Irish rain—polite but persistent. Like a leaky faucet that followed you around with emotional damage.
“Of course,” I muttered, adjusting my faux fur hoodie while a child screamed about a wet sock like it was the apocalypse.
Despite the drizzle, we moms knew what we were doing. We set up three portable tents side by side with waterproof extensions that connected into one big shelter. It looked like a military base designed by Pinterest addicts.
We had:
A cooking station with butane stoves, two skillets, and one emotional support kettle and coffee maker, plus a pink little over toaster.
A food corner with three coolers packed with fried chicken, adobo, hotdogs, ham and cheese sandwiches, boiled eggs, chips, gummy worms, mini chocolate bars, and more water bottles than anyone would ever drink
One large plastic bin labeled: “JUST SNACKS. DON’T JUDGE US.”
Foldable chairs, fleece blankets, coloring books, marshmallows, and bug spray we’d probably forget to use
A cooking station with butane stoves, two skillets, and one emotional support kettle and coffee maker, plus a pink little over toaster.
A food corner with three coolers packed with fried chicken, adobo, hotdogs, ham and cheese sandwiches, boiled eggs, chips, gummy worms, mini chocolate bars, and more water bottles than anyone would ever drink
One large plastic bin labeled: “JUST SNACKS. DON’T JUDGE US.”
Foldable chairs, fleece blankets, coloring books, marshmallows, and bug spray we’d probably forget to use
Meanwhile, the kids had zero intention of staying dry.
They screamed with joy, chasing each other in the rain like feral forest creatures. Within minutes, every single child was muddy, wet, and grinning with that untouchable energy only kids on a sugar high could possess.
MJ and Ivy tried to build a dam with rocks.
My Aliya and Jaya chased a frog.
Maya walking like Elsa. (Don't ask)
Someone was definitely eating a worm—Jhing Jhing refused to confirm or deny. And two of the toddlers kept asking Alexa to play “Frozen” even though we didn’t bring Alexa.
Jhing Jhing, multitasking queen of sass and sarcasm, stirred instant spicy ramen with one hand while yelling at her daughter not to use her slipper as a soup bowl.
Mylene tried drying off a screaming twin toddler with a towel that smelled like garlic butter. “Don’t ask,” she warned.
I, the unofficial picnic commander, stood near the edge of our tent-camp-kingdom with a marshmallow stick in one hand, a thermos of coffee in the other, and sunglasses I absolutely didn’t need.
“This is chaos,” Jhing Jhing shouted over the wind.
“This is motherhood,” I replied.
We sat together later on damp mats and folding chairs under the patchwork roof of our connected tents. The girls were in pink tracksuits, now stained and soaked, but still smiling. The older ones danced to K-pop on the Bluetooth speaker. The little ones passed out on each other like tiny drunks.
We passed out chips like communion, handed out juice boxes like peace treaties, and ate chicken wings like we hadn’t just packed enough food for an army. “This is kinda perfect,” Mylene sighed, sipping her soup from a mug with a cracked unicorn horn.
“If you ignore the rain, mud, and trauma,” Jhing Jhing added.
“Exactly,” I grinned.
The rain continued. But the laughter did too. Thunder rolled. But so did the marshmallows. And as the evening crept in with fog and fireflies, we moms sat wrapped in blankets, discussing life, crushes, revenge fantasies, and maybe returning to the gym next week.
Maybe. We were wet. We were exhausted. We were happy.
Somewhere far off, Black Widow’s name was still whispered in fear. But here, in this ridiculous muddy mountain camp with pink-clad kids and garlic-scented towels?
I was just Catherine. Mom of three. Queen of chaos.
And the woman who remembered to pack the good hot chocolate.