It’s official.  We have found the Right RV.

It’s a brand we’ve never examined, a model we’ve never toured, a length we’ve never trailered, and we’re buying it sight-unseen from another state.

Yep, doin’ it Right.

“Right” is one of DH’s favorite words.  If a thing must be done, it shall be Done Right. That means executive-level for DH, and no other way will do.

So, what do we know about the Right RV?

A. It has a “master stateroom” with pocket doors, and

B. It’s within our SUV’s hitch weight and tow limits.

As far as I can tell, there is exactly one RV model in the universe that meets DH’s conditions off-the-rack, and this is it. The bare-necessity camper.

With months of exhaustive research going down the swirly in favor of this two-factor purchasing decision, my suppressed-kneejerk reaction was basically


Here’s something I need to articulate and accept: although my “right” is not his “Right,” that doesn’t make his Right a Wrong.

Certainly you can find a Wrong in your partner’s Right, any day of the week and twice on a Sunday. But is it necessary? Temperament, upbringing, culture, self-confidence, relationship history, priorities, moral sense, all these and more create a sense of Rightness. Which factor do we plan to attack first?

I’ve decided to respect his definition of the minimally-Right RV, however excessive it seems to me. If we define “minimal” as “only the necessary,” that’s good, as far as it goes. But my “necessary” may not be your “necessary,” and accordingly my “minimal” may not be your “minimal” either.

I’m learning to work through such tangles by taking a few breaths and focusing on a bigger picture.  The exercise has been enormously assisted by a prompt from Tammy Callahan Schotzko, organizational guru, who is so awesome for taking my Death Blossom call on a Sunday morning:

Q: What’s the actual goal here?

A: Getting the girls outdoors, spending family time, and engaging both parents with both children on common ground. Preferably dirty common ground. With spiders.

If I focus on that goal only, my perspective shifts very nicely.

The children are thrilled.

The husband is emotionally invested.

The wallet factor is–albeit barely–acceptable.

And I get my hashtag: #thisfamilywillcamp.

Yes, there are disconnects. Show me a marriage without ’em. So his Right-RV is 30% longer and 50% pricier than my right-RV. So it’s got the interior decor of a bail-bonds office. So it might bottom out the first time we try to haul it up the driveway.  So what? We’ll park in the road, if needed, until we figure it out.

It’s the Right RV for us, because each and every family member, even the littlest one, gets to check at least one box on his or her “necessaries” list.

Accordingly, we’re gonna have that Right RV shipped, drag it into the woods, and get dirty.

Campermania. Let it continue.