It’s morning in Lenox, MA, and in a few hours we’ll be dropping off our daughter, Elena, at sleepaway camp. Obnoxiously, I’ve already threatened to write an exposé about my wife’s crabby morning attitude, but Elena rightly pointed out that today’s post should be about her. This is her fourth year at camp and there’s an inevitable feeling about
this process that feels like it’s as much about summer camp as, dare I
say it, life itself. —
We drop her off, we see her once more on visiting day, then we get her back eight weeks later, and learn about what a great summer she had. What I like most about this, ironically, is the stuff I can’t fully know about. The mini dramas she’ll have to deal with, without her parents. The joys she’ll experience, without her parents. A good friend of mine whose daughter is two years older than Elena recently observed to me that as our kids get older, we’re really not privy to their inner lives, any more than they are to ours. I hope I can accept this with equanimity. She’s eager to begin the summer and for us to leave her to these bucolic premises. I’m not so eager to let go of her early youth, but I’m adjusting with every day.
––Eric Messinger
