As I write this, summer is almost upon us in New York City. The weather varies from rainy to balmy to sauna. Narrow sidewalks shrink further with the appearance of outdoor tables. New York parents and children must put school and work on the back-burner as they attend seemingly endless graduation/moving on/moving up/moving out/bridging-our-differences-with-algebra-and-song ceremonies.
A subset of these parents is also preoccupied with packing for summer camp—the trying on, purchasing, sorting, labeling, folding, and organizing of all that your beloved child may possibly need, want, or miss while at overnight camp into two large duffels. Mid-conversation about another topic, my friend Greg stared off into the distance and said: “I think Daph needs more shorts.” I got an email from another friend, Kelli, today: “Target fail. No sweatpants. How cold is Maine?” Friends with older children drop off bags of clothing too small for their youngest and our little items get passed on as well. I can envision a documentary following a single pair of Soffe shorts passed from sibling to sibling, family to family, camp to camp, ad infinitum.
This game of clothing Tetris soothes my inner turmoil about sending my nuggets away for so many weeks; I relish in their company, especially without homework and early morning carpool, as much as I once adored camp. Their response to my suggestion that they (a) stay home or (b) stay a shorter time was identical to mine when my father asked the same of me over three decades ago: “Why would you do something like that to us? You are the worst!”
My older daughter, Sloane, is a bit of a killjoy when packing. She thinks the list was inscribed in stone by fiery hand as opposed to mere suggestions that should always be doubled. My younger one, Tanys, is more simpatico with my more-is-more philosophy and agrees that whoopee cushions are essential for a successful summer.
Sending off my youngest—my little partner-in-scatology—is killing me. After a three-year campaign of begging, pleading, and demanding that began the day we first visited Camp Modin, we finally agreed to be empty-nesters for part of the summer. The last two Summers-Of-Tanys have been pretty fantastic as we gave our second child the chance to be an only child.
Though sad to see her go, my husband and I want her to be well-prepared despite our babying her for much too long. Every day feels like a compressed “Billy Madison”-style life skills course: “You know you have to flush/put on sunscreen/wear underwear at camp? You know you can’t just drop stuff on the floor at camp? You know you don’t get separate glasses of ice and water beside your bed at camp?”
As I hugged a comrade-in-tears at the bus drop-off last year, I heard her husband say: “This is why we send them to camp! To get them away from their over protective mothers!” Meanwhile, the over-protective Daddy in our house ruefully calculated yesterday that “Sloane is gone for 13.4 percent of the year,” noting: “That just seems wrong.”
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I confess that I was a homesick-but-happy camper and counselor for all my nine years at camp. I suppose I will be a childsick-but-happy mommy for all the years my girls are at camp. I won’t miss the morning bickering but I will miss the hilarious back-to-back texts of how “she” started it. I will miss our family strolls around the neighborhood as much as I enjoy the weekends when I refuse to leave my bed. Summer camp is the liver filtering out the toxins of a New York City childhood—weeks among green grass and fresh air—unplugged, unhurried. There’s less mental stimulation and more physical stimulation, and yes, it’s all about trading over-protective parents for a taste of independence.
At this point the best I can hope for with Sloane is that she actually says goodbye before getting on the bus. Our little drama queen Tanys never fails to surprise us, for better for and for worse, so we’re expecting the unexpected. Perhaps we already had the preview…
On our block, Tanys must wait for me at the entrance to our garage so I can give her the all-clear before she tears off running home. The last few times, she has raised an arm and shouted the sassy slang term du-jour: “Bye, Felicia!” Even though my heart will break in to a billion pieces, I hope she gets on the bus exactly the same way.
Lani Serota is a New York City mom who lives and works on the East Side, educates her daughters on the West Side, and enjoys everything in between.
