I spent many summer nights in my childhood room with sheets spread from corner to corner, a coat stand propped in the center to keep the entire tent from collapsing on my slumbering head. My kids are carrying on the tent-making tradition. They spent last night on the floor between chairs and under blankets. My daughter said she had a very good sleep. My son said he slept so well he even dreamed.
The only real camping experience I have is making blanket tents in the house. I’ve not slept under the stars, nor have I gone potty while propped up by a tree. I haven’t made dinner over a campfire (unless you count the grill in the backyard as a campfire), and I haven’t bathed in a creek. My husband thinks this city girl needs a good dose of roughing it. I disagree.