Before you start with me--I get it. I defy you to find anyone who loved summer camp more than me. Cheering, color war, waterskiing, rope burning, bunk-hopping. Camp was my temple, and I the Chief Rabbi. This was all before parenthood.
Naturally, when it came time for sending my own young-ins away there was little pause. My spouse was a different story. He is one of those people that can't understand why you send your children away (red flag). But I Cosby'ed his Nespresso and not long after he provided something resembling consent. He remembers little.
I needed to find the "right" camp for the kids. Living in NYC, I wanted something sporty, creative and rustic. No country clubs here. And I did, in God's country, known colloquially as the state of Maine. It features jaw-dropping natural beauty coupled with some methadone trailers scattered here and there for authenticity.
With the kids away, now we must make our own annual mid-summer pilgrimage to visit them for what has been craftily marketed as "visiting weekend." In preparation for this summer halftime show for families, my children--as if they are running for elected office--typically launch pathetic letter-writing campaigns demanding various forms of candy; I suspect they draft them while on the bus en route to camp. In fact, "letter" might be misleading, as their communication really consists more of a list bookended by perfunctory salutations, abandoning any sense of grammar, spelling, or common-sense (thank you private school).
While I was just happy not to receive pleas to come home early, I couldn't help but feel a bit like a clerk at the Hudson Bay Company circa 1850. Please send provisions! We are out in the wilderness and hungry! Preferably Jolly Ranchers! In my day we ate canned Spaghetti-O's. So much more dignified. My kids, on the other hand, should avoid choosing client-facing professions since they will surely have lost their teeth.
But Christmas--er, Halloween/Hannukah--comes early in Maine. In addition to the candy, Mommy has to visit absurd stores to pick up cheering paraphernalia and sport's jerseys for the kids--a shit-ton of money on total dreck! And then it's off to National Lampoon's Family Camp Weekend. Get ready Facebook, I'm gonna try and make it look pretty.
Day 1.
We arrive at my son's camp slightly tardy, maybe 20 minutes, but it's an eight-hour day--yes, eight hours. Rectal exam anyone? The day begins on the lacrosse field, because it's a crisp 92 degrees in the morning, so where else but a hot open field? I can almost hear my dermatologist tsking. Every child looks alike with their gear on. My son is able to locate me first using his GPS-honed beacon of whining and guilt-shaming. After weeks away, Master C rejoices at the sight of his parents and utters those first long-lost words: "YOU'RE LATE! EVERYONE ELSE'S PARENTS ARE HERE." Cue the strained smile.
After some genuinely affectionate exchanges, he begins to discern and examine his loot. "Wait...these aren't the right Jolly Ranchers, this is cherry flavor." Real tears flow. It's as if no time has passed at all--the magic of family. I hiss, "are you KIDDING me?!" (in a stage whisper). Of course, the other children are alarmed by my forked tongue, so I check myself begrudgingly.
We then spend the next seven hours trailing our son from activity to activity. A weekend soccer tournament has nothing on this day. Wait, they don't serve alcohol here? Absurd. I thought this was a vacation. No, no. This is called a trap. After a lunch of hot dogs with faux cheese and chili--perfect for triple-digit weather--I start planting the seeds of a slightly early departure. After all, I have eaten five blueberries today, but the boy looks sad. Fine, don't worry about me. I don't need food.
I'm too busy being the WORST MOM EVER.
After the traditional teary good-bye, I peel off my son and pass him along to a lovely basketball coach. Go play, I grit. Mommy loves you. A silent prayer is exchanged. Bless you, coach Aaron.
With Day 1 behind me--or so I assumed--I am able to relax in the company of copious amounts of red wine and my mother, who was visiting my daughter's camp. We swap stories about the children, how grown and quasi-independent they seem (did you see them carry their own laundry bag back to the bunk? how about that?) and unanimously agree that visiting day is too long and painful. Finally! My mother and I see eye-to-eye. Camp does unite the family. More wine, please. This weekend is far from over.
Day 2.
Yes, Day 1 was arduous, but it was still civilized. Boys camp means no drama.
Day 2 is girl's camp. Fucking mayhem. First, they corral everyone by the flagpole; the parents and relatives arrive early and wait...and wait. There is a starting gun for all to run around like banshees and create this contrived, overly dramatic, teary reunion. It's sort of reminiscent of Pamplona except bloodthirsty bulls are more lovable than shrieking tweens. Hemingway would eat this shit up. Thou, he did kill himself, which is where I start to drift...
Luckily for us, we avoided much of it because we were late for visiting Day 2 as well! Which led to the inevitable dispute with my husband that had been brewing since the very first time I uttered the word "camp" to him. My littlest guy has learned an entirely new set of vocabulary words just sitting in the back seat. He can now integrate the word "selfish" and "asshole" deftly and in the right context. We think he's gifted.
Day 2 is still in the early stages, but I am already becoming more resentful of being overlooked by the Academy for my portrayal as a content wife/mother. Meryl Streep has nothing on me. I can smile through all the indignities.
Luckily kid #1 knows better at this point than to expect her parents on-time, and she is all but sarcastically smoking a cig while glancing at her emoji watch waiting near the parking lot for me to saunter over. No wonder she's the fave. We just get each other.
"Did you and daddy just have a fight?" she asks reflexively?
"No-no-no-no." I shake my head dismissively. "He just wanted to stop for an iced coffee and a paper and I refused to pull over because I didn't want to be late. Now give Mommy another hug."
Just like C's visiting day, K's is equally long. Standing on the sidelines with oppressive heat makes for some cranky parents. Seed-dropping for an early departure take two. This time met with tears. Okay, okay I raise my hands up as if to indicate my surrender, we don't have to leave at 4:00. We do have daunting travel ahead of us, but don't let that influence you. We are here but to serve. Did I tell you I brought two packages of Oreos?
Remember when I said camp was my temple? Well, the Gods smiled on me because at 3:00 PM there is such a downpour that I am able to skip lacrosse and the musical performance. Hallelujah. I try to conceal my euphoria and discreetly high-five other parents in the parking lot.
We say good-bye to our daughter and then pull-away from the parking lot. My husband is not happy. He may be the fourth kid to cry this weekend. I tell him he should be weeping for the copious funds spent on summer camp, and the chili cheese dogs. Then I remind him that my alter ego of the competent wife/mother is currently out of the office until August 12.
See 'ya in three weeks, kids. I'll even post a picture when you get off the bus. Provided I'm not late.