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!)
"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!)
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