the pieces of my life

With the children safely ensconced at camp, you’d think there’d be nothing left to annoy me. Ah, but alas, my husband is home.

Cleaning up, he opens our compost trash (the one waiting to be taken outside). Peering, in throws something in, closes it, and then says to me: “Wow, that’s a lot of mold growing in there.”

And then he walks away.

Seriously? Is he new here? You don’t announce mold and then walk away. And saying, “It’s only growing on the avocado” does not excuse you from going out right this instant, I don’t care if it’s raining, and putting the thing in the outdoor compost bin.

The children are at camp. Happily so, it appears. How would I know that it’s happily so? Because both my parents and my brother-in-law received letters from my younger child letting them know how much she enjoys camp. Did I get a letter? I, the one who was ordered to write her every day, even if I had nothing to say? I, the one she cried to all morning before I drove the hour and a half, unpacked her, made her bed, and took all the pictures she demanded? I, the one who scours the camp web site, blog, and Facebook page, searching for a glimpse of her, I.M.ing Adam messages such as, “I’m pretty sure that’s the back of her shoulder near that tree in photo #485.” No, I have not yet heard from that child. Nor the other child, although that’s a bit more expected.

Drop off was not the traumatic experience I was anticipating. Pie and I prepped. “Maybe you won’t cry this year,” I said.

“Oh, no. I’m going to cry!” she responded. We talked about how it’s okay to be homesick but to still have a great time. We agreed it was okay for her to cry, but she should try not to cling on to me. She asked me to contact her “camp mom” and let the counselors know she would have a hard time. I had e-mails and phone calls with the camp mom to give her ideas on how to distract Pie (“Ask her about her cousins. Ask her about dance. Ask her about her crafts.”) She decided we should unpack her brother first (I went solo this year, so there was no divide and conquer) and then take care of her.

And what happened? She couldn’t wait to get to her bunk (P: “Actually, let’s unpack me first.” Me: “We have a plan.” P: “Well, let’s change the plan.” Me: “We are going to stick with the plan.”) She immediately started chatting up the counselors. And then she decided to head over to the camp carnival. She turned to me, said, “I love you, Mom. Bye!” And ran off. The counselor looked at me with wide eyes and said, “I had been prepared for something difficult!” Stunned, I said, “Me, too,” and I ran out of there before Pie could change her mind. So far every photo has a smiling girl (or at least the back of her shoulder looks quite happy). And I’ve seen a not-unsmiling boy (he doesn’t truly smile, but he’s clearly happy in the photos).

So now, I only have one child to deal with (the 41-year-old child). I’m in the midst of catching up on paperwork (grant wrap-ups that were due), planning for the upcoming year (newsletters, Girl Scouts), writing (crazy, I know), photo sorting (oh, but there is a backlog), and all the other wild things that one does when children are out of the house. If you hear crazy noises coming from over here, don’t worry: It’s just me cleaning out the attic.

While the posting of pictures and blog entries is all fine and dandy for the camp to do, it turns me into an analytical mess while I try to detect every emotional nuance from the slight glimpses of my children I see in the photos.

Me: I NEED PICTURES!
Adam: i saw his head in one. and he’s standing on the beach in the swim photos (with no goggles)
Me: i saw that! what’s up with that? I packed him three pairs. where did you see his head? i missed his head. why isn’t he having friends?
Adam: actually I think he’s holding goggles in this one.
Me: oh, you’re right.
where’s his head?
why isn’t he talking with anyone?
is his head talking to anyone?
or at least smiling?
Adam: his head is in middle in this one: [link to photo]
he’s fine
Me: but his head isn’t talking!

The camp not only posts pictures, but it has a blog and a Facebook account, so I’m basically stalking the camp. I was reassured to see pictures of Pie playing hand games–the girl can’t be too unhappy if she’s teaching other kids her hand games. Although I did hear from the camp mom that there has been one bout of homesickness, although she seemed to recover fairly quickly.

We can send the kids e-mails, which the office prints out and delivers to them. They have no access to computers, so it’s a one-way communication. Finding stuff to write to them is difficult. How many creative ways can I write, “Mommy spent the day writing. And then I had drinks.” I’ve been bugging Adam to write so I don’t have to do it every day. Yesterday morning I asked him, “Did you write the kids this morning?”

He said, “I worked out this morning! I didn’t have time to write them!”

I reminded him, “You often work out when the kids are home. But this morning you didn’t have to cook breakfast, go upstairs while Pie got dressed, break up the fights, say no to the iPad, and all the other things you do in the morning that you tell me prevent you from doing other things.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Turns out, that stuff really doesn’t take up much time.”

At which point I made him write an e-mail. See? Even with the kids gone, I have to make someone do homework.

Refresh, refresh, refresh!!

I thought that by rationing out my gummy bears into a cute little bowl, it would prevent me from overdoing it on the candy. Turns out, I was wrong. But it’s okay, because with the kids gone, I’m not getting in enough steps on my pedometer (most steps were spent walking Pie to camp, walking Pie to Starbucks, walks with with Pie around the neighborhood, etc. Where was the boy? Playing Minecraft, of course), so the only steps I’m really getting now are those from the couch to the gummy bear drawer. And how does anyone figure there are 3.5 servings in a 5 ounce bag? That is simply wrong.

The kids made it off to camp with just about everything they needed. We had the predictable:
[Three weeks ago]
Me: Doodles, do your Shabbat shoes fit?
The boy: Yeah.
[Two weeks ago]
Me: Doodles, are you sure your Shabbat shoes fit?
The boy: Yeah.
[One week ago]
Me: Doodles, would you please try on your Shabbat shoes and make sure they fit?
The boy: They fit me, already! Leave me alone!
[Two days before we leave]
Me: Doodles, I am going to stand here and watch you. Try on your Shabbat shoes.
The boy: Mom! [Tries on shoes.] Hey! They’re too small!

We had the nervous:
Pie: With the counselors help me do my hair?
Me: Of course.
Pie: Will the counselors help me when I get a bug bite?
Me: Of course.
Pie: Will the counselors help me if I can’t cut my food?
Me: Of course.

We had the frantic:
Me: Where are all your shorts! Find your flashlight! No, I’m not buying you a new flashlight if you lost last year’s flashlight! You’ll just have to be in the dark! Bring me your Shabbat pants! No, not those, the ones that fit! What do you mean all of those shorts don’t feel right? WE HAVE TO PACK! I need to label how many pairs of socks? Screw that. Don’t lose your socks.

But we made it to camp. In case you’re wondering, the camp web site is not adding photos in 15 minute increments, but I am continually checking, just to make sure.

And the house is dead quiet. I’ve been able to read. Work on my novel. Eat gummy bears. No one is dancing to Selena Gomez in the kitchen. No one is begging for computer time. No one is demanding a trip to the Res.

Peace and quiet.

Man, do I miss them.

My baby boy is home. Did you guys hear that? I’ll say it louder. MY BABY BOY IS HOME! And he loved camp. Sob! Next year he wants to go for the four-week session (refresh! refresh! refresh!).

I myself had a whirlwind weekend attending the wedding of two high school friends. It was one of those crazy stories–they dated for years in high school, broke up, married other people. Those marriages didn’t work and when they found each other again, the sparks flew. So I jetted off to Sunny Isles, Florida for their wedding. It was beautiful. But it meant that Adam had to pick the boy up from camp. So insufficient pictures. (And, let’s be honest, there would be no “sufficient” pictures if I’m not the one taking them.)

I woke up this morning to a not-so-little boy body in my bed. Ahhhh.

“Whatcha doing in my bed?” I asked him.

“I had a bad dream,” he told me. “You know, I really shouldn’t read the dictionary before I go to bed. I had these nightmares and people were using all these fancy words.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t even know what all of them mean.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “Like ‘exquisite.'”

I’m so happy he’s home!

*One of my favorite songs, even if they do spell “all right” incorrectly.

It started last fall. It was the boy. “I want to go to sleep-away camp.”

To which I gave the only logical response: “No f**king way.”

But the boy was determined. “I want to go to sleep-away camp!”

“You’re too young!” I protested. “You can go… someday.”

Meanwhile, I had the girl reassuring me, “I will NEVER go to sleep-away camp! Don’t even think about it for me. Never ever!”

We debated through the fall. It was too late to visit camps, so it was a moot point anyway. I wasn’t going to send him to a camp I hadn’t seen.

“Sleep-away camp, Mom,” he’d say. Then he’d become specific. “Cub Scout sleep-away camp.”

“That one is never going to happen. No Cub Scouts. Cub Scouts are too evil to do sleep-away camp. If you do go to sleep-away camp, it’ll be Jewish sleep-away camp.”

“No way,” he said.

Well, that’s that. I walked away feeling smug and secure as we ended the conversation. Except… he thought for a few weeks and then came back to me. “Okay, Jewish sleep-away camp.”

Oy.

“Mom,” the girl reminded me, “don’t forget, I am not going to sleep-away camp! Never!”

I attended the camp fair at our synagogue and was fairly impressed by one of the camps. It also happened to be the camp our rabbi had sent his daughter, so I felt in some ways it had been vetted. But the thing that sold me on sleep-away camp for sooner rather than later was this: This summer was the last summer the boy could go for a two-week mini-session. Next year, when he hit fifth grade (did I just say that? fifth grade is just a year away? Ahhhhhggggggg!), the shortest he could do is a four-week session. Plus, one of his buddies from Hebrew school (whose mom not only attended the camp, but worked there for a number of years as a counselor) would be in the mini-session this year.

Relunctantly, I relented: “Okay. You can go.”

A zillion dollars later and the boy is signed up to go to a camp that we’ve actually never seen. About two weeks ago, they had a day for prospective campers and we decided to go. I was worried about going, as the boy had been to a sleepover at a minor league baseball team the night before, and I knew he would be tired and cranky. My fear was that he would see the camp and declare–after the zillion dollars was paid in full–that he hated it. When the boy is tired, he can be a beast. I was setting us all up for failure. I was afraid. Very afraid. I thought about saying we couldn’t go, but I was dying to see what the place looked like.

So we went. And I was right. The day completely backfired on me. I. Am. Screwed.

Oh, the boy was no problem. He liked the camp. It was the girl.

“I WANT TO COME HERE!” she yelled as soon as the adult tour rejoined the kid tour of the camp. “I CAN GO NEXT YEAR TO A MINI-SESSION WHEN I START THIRD GRADE AND I AM GOING TO COME HERE!”

Shit.

“When I go,” the girl continued, “I’m going to take for my electives the dance, tennis, and art. Or maybe boating? No, tennis! But outdoor cooking sounds cool! Maybe I should do drama? When I get to come for eight weeks, I can do all the electives I want!”

“My love,” I told her, “you will never go for eight weeks. Four weeks is max. I want time with my children.”

“But, Mommy,” she whined, “I want to come for eight weeks! Can you sign me up now for next summer?”

Did I mention how screwed I am? I. Am. So. Screwed.

On Tuesday, I took my boy to camp. He could not get out of the house early enough. “Can’t we drive to drop the girl at her camp and then leave straight from there?”

I told him, “Drop off doesn’t start till 10. We can’t get there early.” The camp is just 75 miles away.

I heard every five minutes, starting at 7:30 a.m., “Can we go now? Is it time to go?”

In the car, he was a little quiet. He admitted to being momentarily nervous, but it disappeared the second we arrived.

He hopped out of the car and ran into his bunk. He so kindly allowed me to unpack him and make his bed (what joy!), and he was thrilled that his Hebrew school friend was not just in the same bunk as him, but the same bunk bed.

I took note of the daily schedule. Which I absolutely couldn’t read. Because–you know–it was in Hebrew. Huh? Oh wait, a Jewish camp. Yeah, that was my idea.

The boy was hopping all over the place and soon ran outside to play Frisbee with one of his counselors (there are three counselors for his bunk of ten boys; all ten boys are there for the mini-session and all ten are going into fourth grade). After that, he headed down to the main area where there was a camp fire and they were getting ready to bake pita bread on it, and he rolled candy sushi (fruit leather as seaweed, and Rollos, Fluff, jelly beans, and other candy as the innards).

After a few minutes, I said, “Okay, I guess I’ll get going.”

He barely looked up as he said, “‘Kay, Mom. Bye!”

And I left.

Waaaaaaa!

That night I spent hours hitting “refresh” on the camp website waiting for a picture of my child. I told him I’d pay him 50 cents for every photo I saw him in, to give him incentive to dive for the camera. There were none, although by morning I saw a few.

When I mentioned this to an acquaintance, she laughed and sent me this video. When I sent the video to Adam, he accused me of making it myself:

(Note, the following video drops a few F-bombs, so proceed with caution when watching around others.)

It’s just two weeks. Waaaaaaa! Refresh, refresh, refresh!

*Don’t get the title reference? It refers to a novelty song from the 1960s by Alan Sherman.