Flour on the Floor: Camp Crumblers PART 2

With my son at sleep-away camp, there’s only one way to describe our house: quiet. I had no idea how much space that one little eight-year-old took up with his questions and negotiations and laundry. Then something happens--our daughter grows to fill it.

With her brother home, she’d wile away mornings watching television; now, she seeks us out. It turns out that she really has very little interest in TV shows, computers, or games on my phone. She has merely been the shill in her brother’s electronics obsession. Her preferences emerge. She likes: sleeping late, a good board game at breakfast, evening walks around the block looking for fireflies, gymnastics on the front lawn. With her brother around, we often see a yelling, stomping, arm-crossing little girl. Now, we find her to be a total delight.

I savor the time with my daughter while also acutely missing my son. I become obsessed with the online camp photos. They are instant gratification. They are mom-crack. The day after my son arrives at camp, his first pictures appear online. He’s easy to pick out since he’s wearing the clothes we sent him in.

In one pic, he’s sitting at a long table with other kids filling out a form to choose his activities for the first week. And there he his with other campers, his arms slung around kids I’ve never seen before. It makes me feel incredibly distant from him to see him having these experiences as they unfold and know that I’ll never be part of this new world of his.

I study each photo like it’s a treasure map. Or maybe a crime scene. I am Sherlock Holmes and I will solve the mystery of my son’s happiness at camp. Though his face isn’t tear-stained, his expressions are cryptic. Why, oh, why didn’t I create a system like my friend’s? She told her son to give a thumbs-up in photos if he was having a great time and to give a peace sign if he was miserable (she assumed the camp wouldn’t post a photo of a kid giving the obvious sign of displeasure of a thumbs-down).

In the absence of ready signs, I am forced to scour each photo. I notice that our son keeps wearing the same shorts over and over though we’ve sent him 12 pairs. For one whole day he’s the only kid wearing a rain slicker and I feel some small pride that he’s caring for himself. My husband nips that pride in the bud when he says, “He’s clearly the only schmuck who doesn’t know to take it off when the rain stops.”

In fact, it’s impossible to intuit the weather from the photos. Some kids wear sweatshirts while others are bare-chested. There are shorts and pants, boots and flip flops, and one kid decked out in fishing gear. It’s total chaos--motherless boys running around in whatever strikes their fancy. These are kids being managed by other, older, kids. I can only imagine the sheer quantity of mouthwash that’ll be needed to overcome a month of unsupervised teeth-brushing (summer might be a good time to buy stock in Listerine). I wonder about the little savage that will be returned to me in four weeks.

I begin waking up in the middle of the night, during those magic hours of midnight and 5am when CampMinder spontaneously uploads the photos from the day before. I sleep with my laptop. My husband’s eager too, blearily grabbing his glasses if I report a new photo batch online. We flag every photo of our son, even those with him blurrily in the background.

Finally, on day four, I see a photo that is a such a display of total bliss that my worries disappear. My son is standing on a dock in his swim trunks and is soaked. On his face is a genuine, joyful grin. Over the next few days the camp slowly weans me like an addict by spacing out their photo posts--every other day then every few days.

I turn my attention to the anticipation of a letter. I don’t expect one for the first five days. The camp brochure touts that the kids will write home twice a week so when we round the beginning of week two, I start expecting letters chock full of details about the events I see online. In addition to cyber-stalking our son, I also begin shadowing the mailman.

It takes ten days for the first note (of the four we'll receive) to arrive. It’s underwhelming. It’s Business Writing 101: a formal opener, a reporting sentence, a closing sentiment. The P.S. is the only part of the letter that has information not readily available through the online newsletters--it says, “I heart u.”

A friend shares a camp letter from her daughter. It’s neat. All the words are miraculously legible; there aren’t arrows pointing to other words further down, or scratch-outs, or words squeezed into where they’ve been forgotten. She writes like a girl and her letter is beautifully full of actual emotion. I’m envious.

Another seasoned camp mom told me that the whole family will go through “stages” of acceptance of our son’s absence. First, heartache--which I started before camp did. Next, we’ll find homeostasis as we settle into a groove as a family of three for a bit. Last, as we near the end, our eagerness to have him back will overtake us.

My daughter starts and stays in the second stage. She’s gotten a taste of one-on-one attention and she wants more; her appetite for us is insatiable. After a marathon afternoon of baking together, coloring and painting, and starting a science project, I say, “Okay, mommy needs a break.” “Why?” she demands. “Well,” I explain, “I have to go potty.” She shrugs and says, “Just go in your pants.” She is serious.

Three impersonal letters from camp later and it’s time to drive eight hours to retrieve our son. We park and walk on a dirt road under a wood sign carved “North Star Camp.” I can hear boys’ voices--lots of them. They’re still at dinner and we wait outside as they sing/shout some skewed version of “happy birthday” (I make out the lyrics: “misery and despair, people dying everywhere, happy birthday!”). It’s all so foreign to me.

I’m eager to see my son but also anxious about how much he might have changed. The doors burst open and out comes some teenage version of my son. His hair is long and he’s vaguely dirty. When he sees us, he yells “Yes!” as he breaks into sprint. He jumps into my arms and suddenly he’s my little boy again. Our reunion takes 3.5 seconds. He’s eager to show us around. We’re treated to the camp’s Friday night lakeside service. This week’s theme is “character” and though one counselor leads the collage of poems, responsive readings, and songs, everyone is involved.

As we sit on log beam benches and watch the sun slowly set, a group of boys play guitars and sing Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s “Teach Your Children (well).” I have a child snuggled on each side and life feels pretty good. All of a sudden, our son hops up and rushes to the front of the proceedings for a tradition they call the “Key Log Ceremony.” Any boy who has a gratitude to share can go and throw a small log on the campfire.

Our son steps up and says to the assembled group of about 200 , “I would like to thank my counselors, the awesome cabin of J1, and my parents for being there when I need them.” By the end of 80 or so such pronouncements, the fire is roaring from all of the appreciation. It’s a great way to end our son’s first camp experience.

With our son away, our daughter was content. With him back at her side, she’s downright giddy. They laugh and chase each other; they hold hands. The son returned to me has a new positive attitude. When his sister reminds him to pick up his dirty clothes, instead of saying, “Stop bossing me!,” he says, “Thanks for the reminder.” He has new jokes, telling his dad he “caught a musky” when he lifts him up in the pool. And he has new underwear. I notice unfamiliar underwear as he gets undressed and pick them up to discover another child’s name stamped into them: “Sam.” Even with my son’s burgeoning independence, my career as a mother is secure for a bit longer--he still needs me, even if it’s just to make sure he’s not wearing someone else’s underpants.

Read