Both of my kids had a blast at camp. They went to River Valley Ranch, which is a Christian-based camp. I sent them there because it seemed to be the closest thing to stereotypical summer camp that I could find – a week without electronics, with woods and acres of fields and night-time games and campfires. I thought they’d make new friends and spend lots of time running and swimming and playing. The boys went for the zip line, the swimming pool, the ninja warrior course and the gaga pits.
They came home talking about God.
Apparently, there was half an hour every evening devoted to spiritual discussion. There were adult speakers and small group chats, centered on stories from the Bible. The kids now know the Bible better than I do.
On the way home, both boys were very philosophical. They spoke wisely about their beliefs and what they heard, and what they believed about what they heard. They talked about what they didn’t like, and how sometimes the counselors contradicted what they believed the Bible said. They talked about how powerful the week was for them, and how they had new friends – but also felt reconnected to God.
I had no idea, when sending them to this camp, that they would even notice a Christian influence. But they noticed not only the evening stories, but the kindness of the counselors, the trustworthiness of the campers, and the way their new friends treated them with care and respect. They noticed the Christian nature of the place.
Unlike much of the world, then, these people actually live by The Golden Rule.
They had other fun, too. They rode the longest triple zip line on the east coast. Shane played 11 hours of gaga. Dylan dove head-first into a mud pit. They climbed a warp wall, swam in a gorgeous pool and ran around outside after dark. They did chariot races and tug-of-war-type games and archery tag and and skeeball and human foosball and miniature golf. They had a carnival and a luau and milkshakes and snow cones. They sang songs and did chants and danced and laughed and cheered.
I was just happy to have them home. Their experience – one that they will hopefully replicate annually for years to come – is just a bonus.
Bill took a week off of work this week, just to spend time with me after we dropped off the boys at camp. We planned lots of fun activities, and had a very nice time. I tried very hard just to enjoy my time with him, but I still spent much of the week lamenting the missing children.
I learned a lot this week, too. Here are the Top 10 Things I Learned After the Kids Went to Camp:
10. Laundry can be done much less often than I thought.
9. It takes nearly a week to fill up a dishwasher with only two people in the house.
8. Our house is way too big and way too quiet.
7. I need to find a way to coexist with my husband when he retires – one that doesn’t revolve around where/how/when to pick up/drop off the children.
6. It is actual work to fill up the calendar when the kids aren’t here.
5. Having the kids out of the house is fine; it’s just nowhere near as much fun.
4. Bill and I still have the exact same communication problems we had before Dylan was born.
3. I have no real reason to get out of bed in the mornings, except when I play softball.
2. I can spend an entire week carrying around my cell phone, waiting for it to ring, just in case the kids call.
1. The kids are NOT going to call, even though they said they would.
I overheard some people discussing an upcoming wedding.
The woman was going to be a bridesmaid, having just recently gotten married herself. She and her husband are young, perhaps in their mid-twenties, and they have no idea what’s coming – or how fast it’s going to come.
I had a series of related thoughts:
I will never again be a bridesmaid.
Hopefully, I will never again be a bride.
I will never again have a baby, or a baby shower, or any of the things that come with giving birth.
I will never again be pregnant or breastfeed a baby.
In fact, my babies are almost grown. I will never have another child in elementary school.
I am old. I gave birth later in life, so it’s likely that I’ll be a very, very old grandmother – if I survive to be a grandmother at all.
I don’t have the luxury of waiting for grandbabies.
I rarely get invited to weddings, or baby showers, or kids’ birthday parties anymore.
I often find myself at funerals.
No one is asked to be a bridesmaid at a funeral. There are no squeals of delight there, like there are at baby showers. There is a lot of silence.
Sometimes there is laughter.
I hope there is laughter at my funeral.
I hope people remember my wedding, my baby shower, and those precious years when the babies were young and I was fat and all I cared about was staring at their little faces.
It’s still all I care about, although my kids are irritated now when I stare at them.
I am not sure that anything I did before giving birth mattered very much, if at all.
I am sure that people who don’t have children don’t understand this, even a little bit.
And I’m not sure I’m right.
But I am sure about the laughter.
I hope there will be laughter.
After Dylan went away for a week without a towel, I was extra careful when giving the boys a packing list for camp. It’s their first week of camp ever, for both of them (and will be much harder on me than it is on them).
This time, I made a fresh packing list and didn’t depend on the pre-made list from the website. That didn’t seem to work for Dylan before, so I worked extra hard on the new list.
I separated items – like “toiletries” became an actual list of toiletries, not just a vague title for what might go into the boys’ new toiletry bags. I put large check boxes next to each item, so that they could actually check off each item as they packed it. Their list was long – but easy to read, simple to follow, and in an order that kept clothes with clothes, bedding with bedding, etc.
After half an hour, both boys insisted that they were finished with packing. There were huge mounds of clothes and things on my bed, waiting for me to put them into their suitcases. It looked like they had done well, but I wanted to be sure they had everything they needed.
“Where’s your list?” I asked Shane. “Did you check off everything as you packed?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “But I didn’t use a pencil.”
“Where’s your list, Dylan?” I asked. “You left on your last trip without a towel, so you checked off everything in the little boxes, right?”
“No,” Dylan grumbled. “I didn’t need to. Everything’s in there.”
“You’re sure?” I asked. “Don’t you want to go back through using the check boxes? I made them special!”
“Everything’s in there!” he insisted.
So I went in to pack. And there was a lot of stuff there – nearly everything on the list.
There was only one thing missing – and it was missing from both piles. Both kids had completely overlooked one item.
They both forgot to pack a bath towel.
Dylan’s report card arrived while he was out of town. Exam grades hadn’t come out online, and we couldn’t know his exam – or final – grades any other way, so we opened it while he was gone.
I carried it into the living room, along with my reading glasses. Then I sat down and opened his report card.
I almost fell off the couch.
Dylan got all A’s and B’s on his exams. He got a C on his computer science project, which was also an “exam” grade, because he didn’t do the second part as per instructed. But he kept his B in Computer Science.
His final grades for the year are astoundingly good: 3 A’s, only one C (in Biology) – and all the rest B’s. In the Honors courses, those B’s are weighted, too, so his weighted GPA will go up. Most importantly, he took challenging classes and got these grades, so the colleges will know that he is willing to challenge himself.
Sometimes I forget that he does better when he’s challenged. Dylan prefers to use his brain. Unfortunately, he finds studying to be incredibly boring. He likes quizzing himself on the computer. But re-reading something once it’s been read? That’s too dull. Boredom is Dylan’s worst enemy.
In fact, when we were looking at his schedule for tenth grade, I asked him if he wanted to make it easier on himself.
“Do you want to drop out of Honors Government and just take regular U.S. Government?” I asked.
“NO!” he adamantly exclaimed. “Why would I want to do that?”
He wants to be challenged. He wants to do well – but he also wants to stay intellectually engaged. So that’s what he’ll be doing in the IBCP program. Next year, his classes include two honors courses and a college-level (AP) class. So he will, indeed, be challenged.
I can’t help but imagine what he might accomplish if he were to – someday – turn in his work on time.
Absolute miracles could happen.
Shane’s 6th grade report card was the same for three quarters: 2 B’s and 5 A’s. His first quarter was straight A’s – so he made honor roll, and had an exceptional performance, all around. Shane enjoyed his first year of middle school, and wasn’t bothered (much) by the social changes. Shane just goes with the flow.
Shane also came home every day from school and announced his homework: “I have two pages of math, a little bit of reading for English, and 25 minutes of practice for instrumental music.” Then he would go upstairs and do that homework, asking for permission to do his reading before bed – and then he would then actually read it before bed.
It was awesome to watch him pull off most everything required by the new school, seven separate classes and teachers, and keeping his friends close, too. He learned very quickly how to use his locker, what to take with him to classes, how to organize his two separate binders (one for morning, one for afternoon). He remembered to turn in almost everything on time and, when he forgot, he remembered the next day.
Shane had interesting experiences with the school bully, who helped and emotionally pulverized him within the course of two days, He worked on the morning show, walked to school with his friends, joined the writer’s club and was in the school band and the school play. He kept a nice, organized balance.
To be honest, I didn’t know this was possible during middle school. My middle school experience was a disaster. Dylan’s middle school experience was a disaster. It was a struggle from day one for both of us.
But for Shane, he’s happy, well-adjusted and having a great time. And he made the honor roll, too.
He should be very proud of himself, but he has remained humble.
Dylan came home from his week away with a suitcase full of incredibly dirty laundry. I asked him to sort it, which he did. And I started washing it.
During the week that he was gone, I’d washed his sheets, pillowcases and comforter. He’d not had the comforter washed for awhile, and it was definitely time. He keeps his room surprisingly clean, so I really didn’t have to do anything else “for” him.
For a week, I did nothing for him.
It was a hard week for me. I am accustomed to doing very, very, very much “for” him. Mostly now I tell him what to do, rather than actually doing it. I consider this an improvement in my behavior.
But when I was doing Dylan’s laundry, I wasn’t the slightest bit bothered. I was happy to do it.
I was not as happy when Dylan announced that the dog had jumped on his bed, then vomited. On Dylan’s comforter. The comforter I’d just washed.
So I berated the dog. Then I got the comforter off of Dylan’s bed, and headed down to the laundry room.
I passed Dylan along the way. “Thanks, Mom,” he said.
“You’re welcome, Son,” I said.
Thanks, Mom.
His words lit me up like a Christmas tree. I felt like washing his comforter every day of the week. I almost wanted the dog to vomit on it again, so I could wash it again, so I could hear those words again.
He totally made my day.
Dylan says thank you a lot. But he’s not usually out of town for a week, so I don’t usually forget how often he says thank you. So I appreciated it all the more.
The truth is, I don’t mind doing the work. But knowing it’s appreciated makes it almost not work. Having someone say a simple “thank you” while I’m doing a job just makes all the difference in the world.
I put the comforter in the washer and started it up. Then I went into the kitchen, where Bill was emptying the dishwasher.
Hm, I thought, looking at Bill.
“Thank you,” I said.
Shane and I were at a collegiate-level baseball game earlier this week, with family friends.
He and his friend were chatting at the end of the row, while we watched the end of a 16-inning overtime game – the first game of a double-header. By the time the game was over, it was about 9:15 at night. And the second game – the game we came to see – hadn’t even started yet.
Shane doesn’t really care about baseball. He understands the game, I suppose, but what he likes about the games we watch are the between-inning shenanigans. They do a mascot race and musical chairs. They throw t-shirts and burritos into the audience. It’s all about the show for Shane.
So when, at 9:30, I suggested that we go home, I was surprised at Shane’s response.
“Awwww…” he said. “I want to watch the next game!”
I had underestimated the power of having a friend at the game. I, too, was swayed by having his friend’s parents there. We were having a lot of fun, and it was a beautiful night. I was tired, and we both had to get up early the next day.
But I didn’t push. “We can stay until 10:00,” I said.
Shortly thereafter came the burrito toss. For the uninitiated, staff members throw burritos into the audience – which, at 9:30, was rather small. If you catch a burrito, it’s yours to keep – and warm and ready to eat.
Shane caught a burrito. To be fair, he actually grabbed it off the ground after his friend let it slip.
“Give that to your friend,” I told him.
“It’s mine,” Shane said.
“But you don’t even like burritos!” I said. Shane is infamous in our family for eating nothing but bread, cheese and sugar. This burrito was loaded with chicken, rice, cheese, beans and other vegetables.
“I’m going to eat it,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “If you eat that whole burrito,” I said, “we can stay for the rest of the game.”
“Really?” he said. This burrito was huge, even for an adult.
“Sure,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t get past the first bite.
“Okay,” Shane said. Then he opened up the burrito and took a bite. And another bite. And another bite. As long as he kept eating, he was allowed to stay at the game. Meanwhile, I got to stay and watch the game, and talk to my friends, too.
And my cheese-and-bread son ate a full half of that burrito. He ate for nearly an hour, and he actually seemed to like it.
I was tired, but thrilled. It was the second new food he’d tried in one day! At age 12, maybe he’s finally broadening his horizons.
At 10:30, Shane banged his elbow on his chair, and finally admitted to being tired enough to go home. On the way, he admitted that he didn’t like the beans “or the green stuff” (lettuce) – but that the burrito was otherwise okay. He’s going to try one someday with just chicken and rice, the parts he liked best.
I’d say it was an hour well-spent.
After Dylan headed off into the wild blue yonder with his church group, I went home to take a nap. We had all gotten up very early to see him off.
As I tried to sleep, I realized that Dylan hadn’t packed bug repellant. It kept me tossing and turning for awhile until I realized, He wouldn’t wear it anyway. And I tried again to sleep. Someone will loan him some if he needs it, I thought.
I had tried so hard to allow Dylan to pack for his own trip, using a four-page list that I forced him to highlight.
“Yes, I have everything on that list!” he’d told me for the fourth time, when I’d asked to go through his suitcase with him. But I did go through the suitcase – briefly. I didn’t go over the list; I left that to him. He had underwear and clean clothes and socks and tools. I’d hand-selected his toiletries over the course of several weeks. I’d figured he’d be fine, whatever he packed, and that he would learn from his mistakes if he forgot something.
But no insect repellant. It was mentioned twice on that list.
I tried to sleep anyway. Then it hit me like a baseball bat over the head:
Dylan didn’t pack a towel.
“Towel” was most definitely on the list. Dylan was going to work outdoors in the heat of the summer for eight hours a day, and he was going to really want a shower. And when he got out of the shower, he was going to want to get dry.
Yet, he’d gone off for a week with no towel.
I gave up on my nap, and I texted him. “You didn’t pack a towel,” I said.
I didn’t hear back from him for several minutes. So I texted again. “Tell your team leader and maybe you’ll be able to stop somewhere and get one.”
I still didn’t hear back from him. He wasn’t out of cell range after only 20 minutes in the van.
“Hello?” I texted again, 15 minutes later. “my msg? towel?”
“Okay,” he finally texted back.
And other than another short text conversation during which he answered almost none of my questions, I didn’t hear from him for two days.
It was not an easy task for him to call from Appalachia, but he called on Tuesday night. By then, the only thing that mattered to me was that he was happy, safe and healthy.
Of course, that’s the only thing that ever matters to me – but I manage to worry about a lot of inane details.
So I did remember to ask: “Did you get a towel?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We stopped at Walmart and I got one.”
(Whew.)
Best of all, he’s safe, healthy and happy. I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Dylan left for a week. He went to West Virginia with a huge church group of teens (and adults) for a week. He’s going to work on projects that will help needy families in the Appalachians. Dylan is going to have an absolutely phenomenal time, which is why I was so excited for him to go.
The house is very, very, very quiet.
The trip is seven hours long, and the destination has no cell phone coverage. I don’t know if I’ll hear from Dylan at all this week.
There is a payphone available, and we gave Dylan a phone card. I begged and pleaded for him to call, and he said he’d try to call every day. But he emphasized the word “try” – which tells me that I might be facing another China-type experience.
Three years ago, Dylan sang with a chorus in China. Because he was only 12 years old, we all went to China with him. But we were on the “family” bus while Dylan was on the “chorus” bus, so we weren’t with him much.
We were only a few hundred yards away from him most of the time, but he was only able to communicate through chaperones – or he could talk to us at meal times. I knew it wasn’t easy for Dylan to write letters, so I made it as easy as possible for him to stay in touch with us.
So I wrote little phrases on orange pieces of paper. I told Dylan he didn’t have to write anything, but that he could just choose a phrase that described the way he felt. He didn’t have to do much – just pick a phrase on an orange paper and hand it to his chaperone, who would give it to me.
The orange papers said things like “I love you” and “I am okay” and “I didn’t get any sleep last night” and “I want to go home” and “the food sucks” and “the food is wonderful” and “China is awesome.”
Then I asked Dylan to give me one orange piece of paper per day. I made sure he had easy access to those papers. I didn’t care which one he picked. I just wanted him to stay in touch. I went all the way around the world so we could stay in touch, and I made it exceptionally easy to do so.
But after two days in China, I still didn’t have a single orange paper. Then, at the tourist-ridden Chinese circus, I wrote a note on a napkin and passed it to Dylan, who sat two rows in front of me. My napkin said, “I NEED AN ORANGE PAPER.”
Dylan turned around and looked at me, and shrugged.
The next day, he finally delivered an orange piece of paper. It said, “I feel OK.” And that was the only – and last – piece of orange paper I got during 10 days in China.
I mentioned this to Dylan, as he headed out for the no-cell-coverage area in West Virginia.
“Mom,” he said. “I was in like sixth grade then.” Dylan implied that he wasn’t going to leave me hanging for another week.
But here I hang.
I am like a fish out of water now, gasping and flopping around aimlessly, with no hope of finding a safe haven. I don’t have a thing to do, except stare at the phone. I carry it around the house with me like an oxygen machine.
In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, I wait for it to ring.
