Updated: April 8, 2021
Originally Published: March 15, 2009
March heralds the arrival of spring break, and I can’t resist sharing my children’s favorite holiday tradition: watching Dad empty the RV’s septic tank. To provide some context, I didn’t grow up in a family that embraced camping. My father, an Eastern European immigrant, and my mother, a first-generation American, were just happy to have a roof over our heads—why would anyone choose to sleep outdoors? In contrast, my wife, Emily, spent her childhood tent camping with her family, who love to recount the night they were caught in a torrential downpour, forcing her dad to make a mad dash to the car in his birthday suit. Those stories always leave me feeling a bit less than manly.
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Marriage often involves compromise. So how does a rustic-loving mom from America and a dad who’s a bit behind the times find common ground when it comes to outdoor adventures with the kids? The answer is simple: RV camping offers a bit of everything—hiking, campfires, s’mores, indoor plumbing, a kitchen, and beds (of a sort).
Our first RV trip was quite the experience, with our kids being 6, 4, and 2 years old. On our second day, we stopped for gas at a Sinclair station, where we encountered a life-sized green Brontosaurus in the parking lot. This stop was memorable for two reasons: the dinosaur and our first family “dump.” RVs come with septic tanks beneath them, and the gauge inside gives real-time updates as they fill up. The rental company had given us ample instructions on how to empty the tanks, which some rookies find daunting. Ha!
Finding a dump station is sometimes tricky, so discovering one at a spot with a dinosaur was pure camping luck. While the younger kids hopped out to have their fun with the dinosaur, I kept our eldest back to teach him about the intricacies of dumping the septic tanks. Parents should seize every teachable moment, after all. I donned double gloves and retrieved the waste hose from storage. With the valves securely shut, I opened the caps on the tank outlets. The smell was quite potent!
Carefully, I attached the hose to the first tank outlet, designed for “non-sink” waste. The plan was simple: connect one end of the hose to the outlet and place the other end into a dump hole that presumably leads to some deep underground cavern. The dump hole was secured with an iron lid that had a foot pedal. “Hey buddy, why don’t you step on the pedal to hold the lid open while I insert the hose?” I said in my best faux-lumberjack voice. My young assistant, now struggling to breathe with his face buried in his shirt, stepped on the pedal, only for the lid to snap off and clatter to the ground, lid still shut. My son’s eyes widened in panic, and he exclaimed, “I broke it! I broke it!” before bolting back to the RV, convinced he would end up in jail in Wyoming.
“It wasn’t your fault, buddy,” I reassured him. “The lid was rusty; it would have broken regardless. You just happened to be at the wrong dump station at the wrong time.” This did little to soothe him. “Let’s just leave, Dad! Pleaaaassse!” But what kind of lesson would that teach? We needed to own up to the mishap. “Nope! We’re going inside to explain what happened,” I said. “How could a 6-year-old break a rusted lid anyway?”
“No, no, pleaaaassse! You go tell him!” he begged.
Sometimes, being the bad guy is necessary for a lesson to stick. So, with my embarrassed son in tow, we picked up the rusty pedal (with gloves, of course) and confessed our mishap to the friendly attendant. He was extremely understanding. “Don’t worry about it, kid; we’ll just replace the lid. It should have been done ages ago. Go ahead and use the dump hole while you’re already hooked up.”
“You see, son, that’s how you handle accidents—face them honestly, and things will work out,” I said, channeling my inner sage as we returned to the RV. Our son, elated at not being arrested, joined his siblings at the window to witness our family’s inaugural dump, with Emily documenting the moment for posterity. I confidently propped the lid open with my foot, inserted the hose, and opened the valve.
Upon reflection, I suspect I hadn’t secured the hose tightly to the outlet valve. After all, this was my first dump. Suddenly, a loud sucking sound echoed, and the hose was yanked from the valve outlet, disappearing into the dump hole. The deep pit exerted a serious vacuum! As the hose vanished, the valve began spewing our accumulated “non-sink” waste. The kids erupted in laughter from the RV window, while Emily rushed out to assist, still filming. I quickly motioned her back into the RV, glancing nervously to see if the attendant was watching. I jumped into the driver’s seat and sped out of the gas station like I was in a Fast & Furious movie, leaving a trail of bright blue waste—all over the Sinclair parking lot, at the feet of the Brontosaurus, along the access road, and eventually onto I-25 North.
I have no idea how many miles we drove before the tank was empty and the blue liquid finally stopped flowing. What I do know is that our kids couldn’t stop laughing for three days. My son was gracious enough not to mention our lesson on confronting mistakes.
We embarked on over two dozen RV trips after that, until the kids outgrew the cramped beds. Never again did our waste hose get sucked into the hole. Yet, every spring break for the next twelve years, the kids would hope for a repeat of that unforgettable moment.
If you’re interested in learning more about family-friendly activities or exploring options for home insemination, check out this informative post. For those considering becoming parents, Make a Mom offers excellent resources, while the Cleveland Clinic’s guide on IUI provides valuable insights into assisted reproductive options.
In summary, spring break can lead to unexpected adventures—even those involving septic tanks. Embracing the chaos and finding humor in the mishaps can make for lasting family memories.