Camp

I sent my oldest daughter off to camp today. It's her first big trip away from home that doesn't involved being spoiled rotten by her grandparents. She was hesitant at first, but once her teacher showed them a video about what the camp was about, from that day forward she was nothing but excited. And this morning she was oh, so calm about it all, informing me with quiet exasperation after my third time hugging her and saying goodbye, that despite my promises of departure I had yet to leave. Properly chastised I went on my way.

Boy, this was not what I was expecting at all. And no, I am not talking about my daughter growing up and not needing me anymore. I am talking about her actually being excited to go to camp. I HATED the idea of going to camp. I hated going to camp. But after I had reached a certain age, my parents decided that sending me to a weeklong summer camp was just the right thing. I heartily disagreed.

The first year they tried to send me to church camp I stated in no uncertain terms that I did not want to go. But I was making absolutely no headway as camp day approached, and panic started to rise. I spent the last three days before camp crying hysterically.

The night before I was to be packed off, my mom urged me to the table for my Last Supper. I wasn't hungry, but she made me sit at the table anyway. She urged me to tone down the hysteria for at least one meal. Everybody tried to eat their dinner in peace, but I managed to cause indigestion in more than one family member with tears dripping into my spaghetti and pathetic little whimpers punctuating silent sobbing. My parents finally gave in and told me I didn't have to go. Hurrah! I was saved!

Unfortunately, they didn't take the hint and proceeded to sign me up again the next summer. The hysterical tactics of the summer before did absolutely no good as my parents were now prepared and had steeled their hearts against me. I sobbed and cried and whimpered to no avail, and off to summer camp I went.

The crying did not stop at camp much to the dismay of those around me. Yes, I was "that kid," the one that cries the entire week, the one that perpetually has snot running down her face. The one that is sure her family has abandoned her. I knew, just KNEW, that in the week I was absent my parents would sell our house, pack up and move away with no forwarding address. I would be stuck at camp my entire life, singing lame camp songs and eating tear-soaked food.

The next year -- and, yes, there was a next year, too; my parents are slow learners -- I managed to approach camp with if not quite delight, at least not sheer terror. I knew what to expect. I didn't cry once. And as I left on the bus, off to yet another week of adventure, my parents were stuck in the church parking lot with no way to get home. Apparently, when I had collected my items to take to camp, I had locked their car keys in their trunk, a little Freudian f#&! you for having the audacity to want to provide me with memories that would last a lifetime.