Camp

I may as well admit it before pictures start flying through my newsfeed and my admission of guilt is better if it comes straight from the horse’s mouth. Neigh. Yes, I signed Russel up for a week of camp but in my defense it is Camp Trinity, affiliated with our church, and two miles down the road from my parent’s beach condo. It is also very reasonable and he has two friends going and so, I thought, why not? I’ll tell you why not.

1. A memory from Facebook flashed through my newsfeed that showed a primitive letter written from yours truly who spent a week at Camp Seagull two years ago and in his words, “I feel like I’m eating trash.”
2. I rode down to the camp last week to pick up a medical form for him and the woman at the desk had a conniption. Evidently one week in advance is frowned upon and I not so nicely pointed out I could get to Europe and back in a week. There goes being pious.
3. This week I went to pick up the packing list and again, shock and horror. I mean, really. Who has enough clothes or clean laundry to pack a month in advance? Don’t forget Russell’s self imposed uniform.
4. Russell’s uniform throws off the whole checklist. I am instructed to pack t-shirts and this presents a problem as Russell does not wear t-shirts. They make him feel like he is going to vomit.
5. Long pants and a sweater can also be crossed off as it is at least 105 degrees.
6. The idea of washcloths tickle me as does anyone even use them except on a baby that fits in a portable bathtub.
7. I clenched my role as world’s slackest mother after I visibly blanched when the annoyed camp person told me drop off was not at 9am but between 3 and 5pm. For heaven’s sakes.
8. Russell deplores sweating.
9. Russell requires television for reducing blood pressure after sweating. There is air conditioning in the cabins so that is a relief if they can pry him out of there.
10. I have laughed at the mothers who send their difficult children to camp, nervously hoping they won’t receive a phone call, and now I am one of them.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Bon voyage, Russell.