Camp visiting day
It is family visiting day at C’s day camp. T is away in China on business, so I definitely need to show up: the luxuries of the accidental mom schedule come in handy.
Z, of course, gets wind of family day and is begging to go. After all, isn’t he family? I am presented with two choices, either of which will make me feel guilty: if I leave Z, he’ll be devastated he can’t go. If I bring him, C will be devastated that he doesn’t get his own time with me. Plus, let’s be honest, I’ll have a 3.85 year old with me. I choose Z’s devastation and I leave him at his nursery school camp. It seems fair, but I’m also the loser since I can’t shake the guilt. Possibly one reason why I can’t have more kids is I can’t add any more guilt to my life.
After the 30 minute drive all the way to the other world of Staten Island, I make my way up to C’s “shelter,” or cabin, and immediately I remember why we shelled out the big bucks to give C this totally unique camp experience. The kids are all buzzing in the hive of their little shelter- picnic tables piled with backpacks and drawings and strips of lanyard and leftover snack. C hands me a card he’s made that says “Mommy” and “I love you.” Wow. I’ll look at that card three days later when we get in the biggest fight of our lives. He is just so genuinely thrilled to have me here. I always check myself when either of my boys shows all this reflexive love and pride. Wait. At me?
We do fun camp activities: meet the counselors, roast marshmallows, look at the lake where C catches frogs, inspect rocks, root through the lost and found, get our picture taken together. I watch C play and possibly cheat at Gaga, an Israeli dodgeball game, and then participate in some sort of structured activity involving foam swords; not really sure what the point of that one is. After lunch in the shelter, we head to the amphitheater to hear announcements and camp songs and Jewish songs.
Immediately, I’m right back at Hebrew school and at all the camps I ever went to, combined. I’m 8, I’m 11, I’m definitely not 40 anymore with a kid belonging to me nuzzling up to me (and totally only paying attention to the lanyard he’s stitching). There are people in this world who hate camp songs and people in this world who love camp songs, and there’s no question, I’m the second kind. I’m a joiner. I guess parenthood is indoctrinating your child into the rituals that you perceive to be important to you, even if you don’t know why. I love this place. I love camp. I love belonging, even if I never did it very well. I love it for my child.