Many parent acquaintances, when they ask about my summer plans, seem to really enjoy confirming that, yes, both of my children go to sleepaway camp for much of the summer. They smile at me with a delight that feels conspiratorial, like we just exchanged a secret and successful parent handshake.
These exchanges are not infrequent, and there is an embarrassed and guilty part of me that wants to beg to differ: “It’s all about the kids, and how wonderfully independent they are becoming!” Or at least sheepishly demur: “I’ll miss them; I wish camp was a bit shorter.”
But, in truth, their absence, or at least the absence of hands-on parenting responsibility, sibling conflict, and ambient “noise” from TV shows and music that aren’t my own, adds up to the equivalent of a kind of vacation—one that I need and really enjoy.
And, yet, my wife and I are always among the last parents to leave their camp on drop-off day. We magically manage to take our time helping them to set up their bunks, getting their meds squared away at the infirmary, making sure we chat with camp leaders, counselors, parent acquaintances, whomever! Our children shoot us eye rolls and grimaces, but we still take our sweet time.
I have a college friend who volunteers at the camp for two weeks every summer as the camp doctor. I want that gig—I want to be a camp journalist! I love that my children are happy campers, but in an alternative universe I’d like to be present from afar, to see for myself how they’re getting on in life without us, at ages 15 and 11. This a pretty decent metaphor for the greater story in our lives right now, of course—figuring out the middle ground between pulling back and pulling away.
Are you ready for summer? If you have younger children than I, don’t listen to anything I just said, okay? Just read this issue! And if your kids are my kids’ ages, let’s stick to our conspiratorial smiles (even if we know the deeper truth).
Happy June, Folks!
Eric Messinger
Editor, emessinger@manhattanmedia.com
