Summer Camp


Ok, kids are off somewhere in the wilderness of Maine, fending of bears and wolves and ticks, and  I am at home with the husband and the fur baby. First week was pretty great – and then the woeful letters arrived. Not the postcard from my elder son which looked like he wrote it with his left hand while playing poker with his right, but from my younger, he of the deep soul. Of course I should have expected some homesickness… He is only twelve and this is his first time away, but I wasn’t quite expecting such a level of existential despair. While the fact he participated in archery was emphasized with an exultant exclamation point, which warmed the cockles of my heart,  I also learnt that he is:


Not eating enough

Was forced to eat bacon

Terribly homesick

Reading a lot (something that would normally thrill me but right now makes me suspect he has morphed into Norman No-Mates)

Expecting a daily letter

And a bit bored.

Grit, I keep telling myself. Character. Perseverance. Camp builds these things. But all I can imagine is him lying in his tent, his tear-slicked cheeks sliding off that ludicrously expensive rubbery inflatable pillow we bought at REI.

“He’d only been at camp for four days when he wrote that letter,” my husband points out. “I am sure things have improved by now.”

But what if they haven’t? I lie in bed and repeat my mantra….

Grit. Character. Perseverance.

Maybe I should just  fill up the Volvo and head North? And on the way, maybe I could stop in at Best Buy and pick up a drone. I’ve got a map!  I more or less know where the boys are! I could go up there, turn rogue mamma in the woods,  and locate them. Just get close enough to fly the drone overhead. Make sure everything is A-OK. And that he is applying his Jungle Juice.

Grit. Character. Perseverance.

I repeat my mantra. In bed. In the car. In Trader Joe’s.

SHMG. I can get through this.

Copyright Sam Grieve 07/01/16

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