He’s not terribly sporty.

He plays soccer somewhat reluctantly and church basketball, a bit begrudgingly.

Perhaps it’s the running.

He’s not much into sweating.

It took years to get him out of a collared shirt, khaki shorts and loafers.

His spirit is sweet and giving, not so much competitive or cut throat.

We dropped his nervous self off at mountain camp today.

A birthday gift from his grandparents and after watching the promo video a half dozen times, he committed.

An old friend’s son would be there too and so, a familiar face makes a place not so scary.

Along the 45 minute winding route to Camp Ridgecrest, he was quiet and still and every so often, would ask how much longer.

I tried to appease this son of mine, a middle child, one of three boys.

I coached and cajoled, squeezed his nervous hand and smoothed back his too long hair that would soon be streaked gold from the sun.

I didn’t tell him that I was swallowing my own worry, hopeful that my son would be embraced as clever and quirky, in a good way.

Our arrival meant handing over luggage, temperature taking and a formal lice inspection.

Check. Check. Check, thank goodness.

Come over here to choose your activities for tomorrow.

Football?

No.

Fly fishing?

Maybe.

Indian lore?

What’s that?

We make all sorts of weapons.

A resounding yes.

Our fearful entry into Cabin 11 was halted by the friendliest of voices, “Hi, Russell! Want to come up here and play cards?”

And so, he did.

I made his bed, organized his loot, and before long, he and a gaggle of boys followed his big brother and set off to set up the hammock and play Gaga ball.

That’s where I spotted him, smiling and laughing amidst a group of boys.

I insisted on a picture, like all good mothers, and he was off.

I love a good bye.