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.