Summer camp

It's that time of year again, when the parents get giddy and silly and maybe even a little obnoxious, and their smarter-than-anyone-over-20 precocious teens roll their eyes and groan at the display of unbridled joy.

No, it's not not the beginning of the school year (close), it's time for summer camp! And the biggest difference is that the kids actually share their parents' joy, but won't actually admit it.

A couple weeks ago, I was one of those parents, though I didn't start off so giddy. Mark is a thoughtful young man who knows I'll miss him over the week, so he does everything he can to minimize my homesickness (i.e., he acts like a complete brat so that I actually can't wait for him to leave!). This year was no different.

he stressed me out from the minute I woke up. Instead of, ya know, loading his luggage into the car or even putting on his shoes and socks, he spent the morning playing video games. I smiled patiently and explained it was TIME TO GO.

Thirty minutes later, we actually left. I wasn't worried because the kids are always at least 90 minutes late in departing. But I panicked momentarily when I rounded the corner at the pick-up spot, and saw the buses. However, true to form, the campers didn't roll off for another couple hours.

This is the most fun part of the camp--the wait (oh look, sarcasm!). It's always hot--at least 100 degrees, and there's nowhere to sit. The kids are nervous, ignoring each other as if they'd never met (they go to events throughout the year, and to camp every summer). They make up for it by being snotty--nodding shyly at each other, embarrassed to talk to their cabinmates, then  and ignoring their parents, rolling their eyes at our stupid questions ("Did you pack flip-flops?"). 

Within a few minutes, the parents all give up and talk to each other or play on their phones, and the kids start pestering us. The kids really want to interact with each other, but lack the social skills, and resort to irritating us instead. (The irony is that when returning from camp, they roll off the bus lifelong best friends, hugging each other and pleading for two weeks of camp next year.)

Mark's friend Colby appeared, and Mark promptly ignored him. Then his mom Shandel walked over, and we hugged and greeted each other loudly. Another boy, Ryan, came over with his mom Sandra, and we repeated the scene. (I became friends with the moms at last year's drop off, and we've met up a few times socially since then.)

Both Colby and Ryan grew a LOT over the past couple months--poor Mark, not so much. (Ryan, on the left, is a full year younger than Mark--and a full foot taller!)

Colby and Ryan are nice kids. Colby told me about the summer school classes he'd just finished, and Ryan showed me pictures of his new puppy. Mark remained silent, quietly tearing up a two-foot square of grass with his foot (ack!!!).

"Did you remember to bring any pants for nighttime?" I asked him, after he'd replaced the turf.

"Yes, Mom," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Geez..."

"Did you--"

"YES! Mom, I rememebered EVERYTHING!" he said, ending the conversation.

I realized it didn't really matter--I'd be home with all my creature comforts. If he's cold, it's his own fault, and if he didn't pack any pants--well, not much I could do about it now.

Just as Mark was sending telepathic signals to his friends that I'm the worst mom EVER, Shandel spoke up.

"Colby did his own laundry," she said. "Then he only packed three pair of underwear! THREE! Can you believe that?" 

Colby shook his head in shocked disbelief (Is my mom really talking about my underwear???), and the other boys died a slow, quiet death from embarrassment in sympathy. Me and the other moms cracked up.

"Your optimism is so cute," I told Shandel, "thinking he's gonna change his clothes AT ALL."

Then Shandel started talking about the boys (ack, girls!) and they couldn't take it--more sighing, eye rolling, and groaning, then they finally disappeared with a basketball in hand, returning only when the discussions changed to something safer.

Finally, after a couples hour of stalling, the buses were finally ready to go. The counselors called for the kids to climb aboard, but not before us moms got one last photo.

"Cabin 9, get together!" Sandra called, grouping the boys together.  They smiled awkwardly, willing the moment to end. We snapped a couple good shots, except Shandel, whose camera phone wasn't working.

"Hold on!" she said, as they started drifting off. "One more photo!"

And with that, they ran off, all 7 boys, scattering in every direction. 

"I'll send you my photo," I told Shandel, watching the uncooperative boys run onto the bus. The little ingrates never even hugged their moms or said goodbye!

(On another note, I was discouraged to see how much smaller Mark is than all the other boys---seriously, he grew about an inch the past few months, while the other boys all grew three to four times that much! At least I didn't have to worry about Mark stealing everyone else's clothes this year--there's no way he'd fit into them until maybe next year!)

But we weren't the only parents being ignored. One dad walked up to the bus, shoved his camera into an open window and snapped a pic.

 "No more photos!" his son yelled, but Dad just answered back, "Too late."

Shandel and I were mad that our boys ran off without saying goodbye, so we said goodbye in our own way.

"Goodbye Marky, Mommy loves you!" I shouted at the bus, waving wildly. "I'll miss my little boy so much! Have fun, baby, I looooooove you!" 

He hid in the seats, away from the window, as though my words were emotional shrapnel to hide from. 

Shandel ran up to the bus, too, blowing kisses and yelling, "My baby! Goodbye, baby boy!" 

The kids, trapped on the bus with nowhere to run, ignored us as we turned the tables on them, acting twice as obnoxious as our kids.

"If my wife was here, she'd join you!" the paparazzi dad told us. "She'd love you guys! Last year, she wanted to bring pom-poms and act like a cheerleader as they drove off."

Shandel, Sandra and I loved that idea, and immediately started planning pom poms for next year.

The camp leader, Ryan, held up a bullhorn and asked where Grant's mom was. She waved, and he walked over to her, handing her a two-liter bottle of soda he'd confiscated from Grant. All the parents gasped (it's a diabetes camp, contraband soda = high blood sugars), and the kids on the buses groaned.

"Oh man, can you imagine the kids in his cabin?" I said to Sandra. "They'll all be high and caffeinated up, and the adults won't know why!"

"That's OUR boys' cabin!" she replied. "Grant's with our kids!'

It was my turn to gasp.

Grant's mom opened the bottle and poured the soda into the grass. The kids on the bus gasped, horrified ("The soda! She's wasting the soda! Nooooooo!"), but the parents burst into applause. Grant's mom responded to the parental cheers, and did a little dance as she poured. It was hilarious!

And then finally, I heard it--the sound I'd been waiting two hours for. The bus engine roared to life, and the doors closed with a squeal.

"Do you hear that?" I said, pointing toward the engines. "It's like the angels are singing! It's music to my ears!" 

The parents broke into applause again.

"Bye!" we shouted, as the buses pulled away. "Have fun! We love you!" 

Our calls went unreturned, but that's okay. Everybody was in for a good week, whether they admitted it or not.

The parents enjoyed our quiet week off, and the boys loved camp, as usual. They returned home filthy, exhausted, hungry, and begging for another week at camp. 

And they'll get it, too, but not for another year. In the meantime, I will savor and enjoy the memories from this year's drop off. (I'm still giggling about it!)

To answer your question, yes.

Yes, Mark had a fantastic time at camp. How do I know? Because:

• He returned from camp wearing an inner tube. (He wore it the whole bus ride home.)

• He was grimy. Like, seriously brown with dirt.

• He was tired. Fell asleep in the car (still wearing his inner tube).

• He was hungry. Although he did say the camp food was good, especially the snacks.

"What was the best snack?" I asked.

He immediately answered, "The ice cream sundaes. I had three."

"They let you eat three?" I gasped.

"Well, no," he admitted. "We all got one. Then, I turned my baseball cap around and went up for a second. Then I took my hat off completely and got a third sundae. It was awesome." He was so proud at his ninja disguise skills, which I'm sure fooled no one.

"And how was your blood sugar all week?" I asked.

"Well, it was 400 after those sundaes," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Totally worth it, though."

"Don't worry, I also drank a lot of milk at camp," he said. "Strawberry milk."

"They had strawberry milk at camp?" I asked.

"No, we added strawberry Crystal Light powder to the milk. It was AWESOME!"

I gagged a little bit at that.

Mark told me about the other activities--mountain biking (his group was the fastest), shooting pellet guns ("WANT. ONE. Pleeeeease, Mom?"), rappelling down rock cliffs ("No. Just no. I did NOT do that!") and even quiet time ("We couldn't even leave the cabin!"). He swam, and danced, carved watermelons, and even did a little shopping (he was super proud of his new basketball shorts that belonged to nobody. "I asked around," he said. "Nobody said those were their shorts." I sighed and explained again that this is called "stealing.")

But the easiest way to tell he had a good time? It was the second sentence he said, right after, "Hi Mom."

"Next year can I go for two weeks?" he asked, jumping up and down. "Please? PLEASE??"

And what other answer could there be that question except "Of course!"

Adios, my son

Let me preface this by saying I love my kid. A LOT. With all my heart. But he's like a puppy--no matter how cute and sweet he is, he's also a lot of work.

So once a year, he goes to summer camp, and we both rejoice. He gets to spend a week in the mountains getting filthy and running wild (well, somewhat wild) and I get to spend a week...breathing. Relaxing. Recharging. It's amazing for us both.

This is that week. Saying I was a little wound up before he left is like saying there's a little media interest in that new royal baby.

On Saturday morning, I laid out Mark's duffel bag and sleeping bag.

"Your bags are ready," I told him. "I taped the packing list to them. Follow the list and you'll have everything you need."

"But--" Mark interrupted. I raised my hand to shush him.

"Follow the list," I repeated and walked away.

"Fine," he said. "But I have to do laundry first, so I have clothes to pack."

I congratulated him on thinking ahead. I didn't remind him that I'd been reminding him to do this all week.

We went to a wedding reception for my brother and sister-in-law, then out to dinner with her family. We returned around 8:30, which was when Mark realized he hadn't turned on the dryer. His clothes were still wet. With a giant sigh, I went to bed.

I awoke Sunday morning, realizing I'd miss Mark a lot this week. That lasted all of 10  minutes, when I found him in front of the TV, where he'd been for an hour.

"Are you packed?" I asked.

"Almost," he answered.

"Did you eat?" I asked.

"In a minute," he answered.

A minute turned into 30, when I reappeared, showered and ready to go. He was pulling pans, butter and eggs out to make himself breakfast. Our scheduled departure was 25 minutes away.

"Into the shower!" I cried, shooing him away. Nobody showers at camp until the last day, and Mark doesn't even really wash then. He just wets his hair so it looks like he showered.

Twenty-five minutes turned into 45 as I waited for Mark to dress, finish packing and load his stuff in the car.

"He really has no concept of time," my sis-in-law Mari marveled, watching him play with the cat. I sighed.

"I'm ready!" Mark exclaimed. He said good-bye to the family, climbed into the car, then ran back inside for his lunch.

"Bye, Mark!" the family cried, but two minutes later, Mark returned for his rain slicker.

"Bye, Mark,"  they repeated, a little less excitedly, when he came back for his hat.

"Mark's back AGAIN," Gabi exclaimed when Mark returned for his breakfast.

"It's not a return if he never left," Scott clarified.

Finally, somehow, we were off, a mere 15 minutes late.

"Did you bring a pillow?" I asked, halfway there. He forgot when we camped last weekend, and complained until his grandma brought one.

"Uh, NO," he sniped. I gave him the side eye, and he very smartly did NOT ask me to return home to get one.

His behavior at the camp drop-off was no less surprising. He stuffed his bags into the luggage trailer, all proud of himself until I asked where his lunch was.

"In my bag," he snorted. 

"Go get it!" I yelled.

"I'm not gonna eat it," he sighed. "I'm not even hungry."

He took one look at me and realized he'd better get. that. lunch. He scarfed it down 10 minutes later, then asked me to buy him more food because he was starving.

Mark hung out with some kids from last year's camp while I talked to their moms. We were having a great time, sharing war stories about our kids, when the bus was finally ready to load. The counselors called for the kids to use the restroom, and all three of our kids immediately announced they were good.

I looked at Mark, who'd just downed a soda.

"Don't have to go," he said.

"Go try," I said. "Or I will make a big scene about how much I'll miss you."

He looked at me, and I just sniffed. Then sniffed again. Then dug deeply, and shouted, "My baby! Mama's gonna miss her baby SOOOOOOOO much!" I raced toward Mark as the other moms laughed. The other campers laughed too, but only because their moms weren't chasing them.

"Fine!" Mark yelled. The boys ran off to the restrooms.

The bus was ready to go, but still missing a counselor. The head counselor called out his name.

"He's in the bathroom!" a girl answered.

"He just WENT to the bathroom!" said the boy counselor, exasperated.

"He's high," I cut in, and the counselor nodded. I meant his blood sugar, not drugs (high blood sugar makes you go to the bathroom a lot).

"Only in a group of diabetics could you say that and nobody even blinks," he said, and we all laughed.

And then, suddenly, it was time. The bus was loaded, and ready to go. We waved to the darkened windows our teens were hiding behind, and the camp leader announced we were free to go. There was a loud cheer (from the parents) and just like that, my blood pressure went down 50 points. I giggled to myself, and danced all the way to the car.

Like I said, I'll miss that kid of mine. But I'm planning to enjoy every moment until he returns. :-)

Christmas in July

Yesterday, I had the distinct pleasure of sending my son Mark to sleep-away summer camp. It's only a pleasure because each year on this day, Mark turns into a surly, growling, mouthy little beast. (If he really didn't want to go, he'd do the opposite--act all sweet and loving--and I wouldn't have the heart to send him away!)

I love that kid dearly, but contrary to what he believes, I am not sending him off to camp to torture him.

"Yes, you are," he groused, when I told him that.

"No, I'm not," I said. "I'm not sending you to prison! You won't be tortured. This is something fun, not a punishment. I know you don't believe me, but I really do miss you when you're gone."

"Uh huh," he muttered. "You're too busy having fun to miss me."

I pondered this momentarily, smiling, then caught myself. "No, I miss you so much, I try to keep myself busy," I said, in my most reassuring voice.

One steely glare told me he did not believe me.

"Anyway, you'll have fun," I said, ending the conversation.

On Sunday, Mark insisted on packing himself. The camp provides a packing list, so I handed it over and let him pack.

My first worry came when he threw in some shorts I know he doesn't like. "I'll just throw them away up there," he said.

Then, because I'd told him they'll do his laundry over the weekend, he said he only packed four outfits.

"You need at least a week's worth of clothes," I said. "And don't throw anything away until you leave, or else you won't have any clothes to wash and wear again."

"Oh, yeah!" he answered. Not that I worried he'd go naked--I'm sure he'd just "borrow" someone else's clothes. (Then again, the last time he camped away from me, he wore the same clothes for three days. Ate, slept, and wore them all for three days straight. Boys are gross. And honestly, by this math, Mark was right, he only need four outfits.)

He refused to pack a sweatshirt, telling me not to worry about it. So I didn't--I'm not going to be cold here at home.

When he finished packing, his duffel bag looked suspiciously empty. He insisted he had enough clothes, so I just shrugged--he likes to learn his lessons the hard way.

Since Monday was our last night together for 12 days, I suggested we go for ice cream. Mark shrugged, and suggested a game of Smashball out back instead. I thought that was fun--I was just looking for a little bonding time. However, halfway through the game, he asked if he could go play with the kids next door.

"No," I said. "You're not gonna see me for 12 days, and I'm gonna miss you."

"Well, I'm not gonna see Kadyn for 12 days," he said. "I'll miss him!" 

I sighed, knowing our bonding was over. I sent him in to shower.

"What!" he screeched. "I'm gonna shower up there. They make us shower every Thursday."

"And today is only Monday," I observed. "Which means your next shower is four days away! And the next one after that is another week! Ugh, get in there!"

He went, still grumbling.

I overslept on Tuesday, and was running around frantically. I woke Mark up, reminding him he had to eat, change his insulin pump set, get dressed, get his room picked up and be ready to go in an hour. For Mark, that is Herculean effort--it would normally take him twice as long to get all that done.

He did get up, but only to pet the cat. I realized he might not make it to camp after all--if he kept up this pace, I might throttle him.

Some how, we made it to the drop-off location only 20 minutes late. But I wasn't worried--we always stand around waiting for an hour and a half anyway.

This is usually the time Mark separates himself from me and refuses to talk. I gave him an affectionate little hug, and he muttered "Go away" under his breath.

"Did you just say, 'Go away'?" I asked, incredulously.

"Yes," he mumbled back.

I threw my arms around him and proclaimed loudly, "I'm gonna miss you sooooooo much!" The other mothers around me smiled sweetly, while the other 12-year-old boys all cringed and died inside a little bit for Mark.

Still smiling, I whispered my own threat to him. "Give me a hug and kiss now, and I won't make a scene when you leave."

Mark pictured me screaming, "Good-bye, baby! Mommy wuvs her widdle baby boy! I miss you, love you, sugar!" and crying giant crocodile tears in front of the whole camp. He immediately gave me a little squeeze, and a quick peck on the cheek. I smiled and discreetly returned the love.

When the final call came to load up the buses, Mark and his group sauntered over as slowly and loudly as possible. The whole group ignored their mothers, who refused to be ignored.

Mark immediately ran to the back of he bus and planted himself in a window seat on the other side of the bus. The other parents stood around, teary-eyed and waving wildly at their kids hanging out the windows.

I quietly made my way through the crowd, toward my car. In years past, I waited until the buses drove away, but really, what was the point? My kid was blatantly ignoring me--I could be ignored just as easily from my own car.

And so, he is off. Away at camp for the next week and a half, having lots of fun, all of which he'll forget the moment he sees me again. He'll pout that he's not with me, but only because he hates to miss out on anything, not because he actually misses me. And I will have just as much fun as he imagines I will, not because he's gone, but as a happy side affect of it.

I will eat what I want to eat, see as many movies as possible, not make my bed, travel with my mom, relax, and take care of someone who always gets pushed aside in favor of my son's care--myself. I will relax, go to fancy restaurants, miss my son, not worry about his care, and have fun. Mommy Camp 2012 will be awesome.

And at the end of it, when Mark comes home, I'll be thrilled to see him. I'll be glad to hear all about camp (though I know his answer to every question will be, "We did the same thing as last year"). I'll be glad to hug him, and kiss him, even though he last showered on Thursday.

And I'll be restored, rejuvenated, and ready to be a full-time mom again...until next summer.  

 

The triumphant return

Yesterday, Mark came home from camp. He'd been gone 12 days, longer than I've ever been away from him, and I was very excited about his return.

When I went to pick him up, Mark wasn't there yet, but his luggage was.

I picked out his duffel bag among all the other bags. We'd stuffed his sleeping bag into a white trash bag, so that one took a while longer to find (I wasn't the only mom to utilize kitchen garbage bags as luggage).

As I loaded the bags into my car, Mark's shoe tumbled out. I stuffed it back in the bag, where I noticed not only its mate, but his back-up shoes as well. I sighed, fearing that my child was riding the bus barefoot.

Luckily, he had on flip-flops as he stepped off the bus. He also had a giant scab on his chin--apparently, he misjudged the depth of the pool, and scraped it. (I giggled as I remembered discussing the same injury with a friend over happy hour this week. Although she may have been a wee bit...impaired...when she scraped her own chin.)

After collecting his blood sugar logs and group picture, I searched nervously, looking for Mark. He takes notoriously bad photos, and I expected to see him with eyes closed like last year, or eyes closed and mouth open, like the year before. He was making a really weird face, but he smiled and said, "Hey, at least my eyes are open!"

"Whose shirt is that?" I asked, pointing at his photo.

He shrugged. "I dunno--it was in my laundry, so I just wore it."

Mark couldn't wait to tell me all about camp. I peppered him with questions, and he was uncharacteristically chatty. He raved about the food (ribs, steak, burgers, breakfast cereal), the store where he bought diet sodas every day ("I'm gonna miss those sodas!" he lamented), the pool where he scraped his chin, and the bear they all saw traipse by his cabin. He told me about the 8-mile-hike they went on, and when I asked how long that took, he answered, "About 20 minutes."

He told me about all the sports he played, and the snacks (beef jerky!) he ate every night before bed. He described the overnighter where they camped outside on a tarp, but did not eat snack (bears like beef jerky). He talked about the arts and crafts, and groused about the drink choices at dinner every night (milk or water). Then he smiled and told me he'd figured out where they kept the Crystal Light, and how he'd filled up his cup with that instead.

He was filthy, so I asked when he'd last taken a shower. He said he took one the night before, then he bragged that he'd only taken two showers the entire time.

"You only took TWO?" I gasped. "Including the one last night?"

"Yep," he answered. "And only because the counselor made me." I can only imagine how smelly that cabin was, with a bunch of sweaty 10-year-old boys running around!

He told me the staff had done his laundry during the weekend, including his sleeping bag. I was relieved to hear that, considering he'd only showered once during the two weeks, and once the night before he came home. I put the sleeping bag outside to air out, but it may go directly into the trash if it doesn't freshen up a bit.

Mark talked a bit about the kids in his cabin, including Andreas, who came from South America. Mark, of the overflowing closets and crammed to capacity under-bed, insisted that his cabin mates were slobs. And then he uttered words I never imagined him saying in a million years...

"I was the clean freak in our cabin," he said, quite seriously. He shuddered at the thought of his cabin, and I shuddered even more. If my kid was the cleanest one there, then I don't ever want to go to camp.

He was exhausted, but hungry, so we stopped for lunch on the way home. We walked right past an ice cream store, and he remarked that, "I don't know why, but for some reason, I want ice cream."

"I bet," I answered. Then I hugged him and said again how glad I was he was home.

"Me too," he said. "Maybe we should celebrate with some ice cream." And then he nudged me toward the ice cream store!

So I was glad to see some things don't change. He had a blast at camp, and I had a blast at Mommy Camp while he was gone. I exhausted myself and the friends who went out me every night while he was gone (big props to Kathleen and Edra for humoring me during Mommy Camp!). And I'm sure he exhausted the camp counselors during his stay. But we were both home, happy, and glad to see each other.

Until next summer...

Mommy Camp 2010

Yesterday was one of my favorite summer time traditions—dropping my kid off for summer camp. Before you judge me a cold, heartless mother, let me tell you—it’s Mark’s favorite day of summer as well.

I was dreading a repeat of last year’s nightmare, when Mark turned into the devil himself while we waited for the buses to depart. I was especially worried because this time, I also brought along my 3-year-old nephew Johnny, who idolizes Mark. I knew if Mark acted up, Johnny would follow, and I’d end up imprisoned for a double (but justifiable) homicide.

So as I started up the car, I reminded Mark yet again about his behavior.

I started to say, “You WILL behave under penalty of—” but Mark cut me off.

“I know, I know, penalty of death,” he sighed. I was glad he’d been listening.

“Grandma told me the same thing,” he said. “She pulled me over in the hallway, like she was a traffic cop or something.”

I giggled at the thought. “Did she give you a ticket?” I asked.

“No, a lecture,” he answered. And so I knew he’d behave.

He behaved so well in fact, that I started to get a little teary. He was so playful and silly, and patient with Johnny, and I realized that he will be gone for two weeks, instead of his usual one. In the five years I’ve had him, he’s never been away that long. I started missing him before he even left.

By the time we got through the registration line, the wheel’s on Mark’s roller duffel bag were straining and twisting kinda weird. They tilted out sideways and I realized they would not last the trip, at least not with Mark carelessly dragging it across the campground.

“Mark, your bag is gonna break at camp,” I told him, pointing at the bag stuffed with his oldest, rattiest clothes. “I don’t care if you throw it away at the end of camp, but please don’t throw your clothes away until the second week! Otherwise, you won’t have anything to wear.” This is, after all, a diabetes camp, not a nudist camp.

Mark received his name tag, and promptly stuck it on his shorts where no one could see it. I made him move it up so people could see it, so he grudgingly moved it to his shoulder, and then to the bottom of his shirt. He’s just too cool for name tags.

We met his cabin counselor, Alec, and the counselor-in-training (I forgot his name). They introduced him to the other boys in his cabin, but he ignored them all, even the one kid he already knew from a previous camp. “S’up?” he said, with a slight head nod, then went back to playing with Johnny.

I couldn’t send him off on false pretenses, so I warned the counselor that this was the quietest he’d see Mark all week.

“He’s hiding it now,” I said, “but he’s really a little wild child.”

The counselor laughed and thanked me, saying he could handle any kid. I wonder if he’ll still say that when Mark returns from camp.

Because, as good as he was yesterday, he’s still Mark. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you, then this should shed some light. The boy in gray is the counselor, who was sitting in the seat in front of Mark on the bus.



And who was completely unaware that my child had found a new place to stick his name tag.