So sleepaway camp was supposed to be for four weeks.
Four weeks of no tooth brushing, rare showering, mediocre (at best) food, and fun fun fun. For them. I’m talking about them.
For me, those four weeks went almost exactly the way a friend of mine told me they would:
week 1 – I was tearing up every time I walked past their picture
week 2 – still sad, but feeling better
week 3 – starting to enjoy my freedom
week 4 – Whoo hoo! Party! And the end is in sight! My babies are coming home!
Only they didn’t. Come home, that is. They begged and begged almost from the first day they got to camp to stay the full season: seven weeks. And I said no and no and no and no. I want them with me. I want to have a summer vacation with my kids. I want to watch their tennis improve – not just hear about it. I want to serve them mediocre food.
And then I noticed something. All of my reasons for not wanting them to stay started with “I.” And camp isn’t about me, it’s about them. Plus, my husband was perfectly OK with them staying.
So I said yes. And we drove up there for visiting day and got to see them. It was great. Only now I have to start all over again…