Both my children are at sleepaway camp. For the first time since I became a parent seventeen years ago, my husband and I are a childless couple. (And this is how I spend our opportunity for a second honeymoon, you ask—writing a blog post?)
Since my son’s first experience, at age eleven, sleepaway camp has been the highlight of his year, and I hope the transformative power of a super-long sleepover party will work its wonders on my eight-year-old daughter, too.
As we drove away from my daughter’s camp, the head counselor said, in her charming Australian accent, “No news is good news.” We have not heard a quack, so everything must be ducky.
I didn’t worry when my son hadn’t contacted me (he is seventeen, after all), even after I e-mailed and texted him asking for confirmation that all was well. When he did call, I knew something was wrong.
“One of my campers had to go to the emergency room in the middle of the night,” he told me. “Asthama attack. A really bad one.” With the senior counselor at the hospital all day helping the boy with the medical crisis, my son had to take care of the remaining seven campers in his cabin by himself. He didn’t get his usual hour off in the morning, but he got someone to cover for him right before dinner, so he could make a quick call. I was touched to be the one he reached out to.
I didn’t get a call the next day, which was a good sign. But the day after I did. “The boy went back to the emergency room,” my son said. “I’m by myself again.” He sounded tired. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, after complaining about his sleep being interrupted again by an ambulance. “Everything is great here. I’m not sorry I came. I’m just venting to you because I can. I have to be strong in front of my kids.”
His kids. The phrase sounded funny. After all, he is my kid. “It’s super fun here when the kids do what I ask them to,” he said, “and frustrating when they don’t.” He didn’t say, “now I understand what you go through as a parent,” but I could hear it in his voice.