“Mama, what’s your favorite part about being a mom?”
Sweet, I thought at first. But then I saw right through her. She’s smart, this one. What’s the easiest way to beat someone at Perpetual Commotion
“Um, so I could have someone to always beat at board games, obviously.”
“Come on, really. What’s the very best part?”
“So I can have someone to play with my hair and watch schmoopy shows with?”
…
“So I won’t be alone when Daddy goes on business trips?”
…
“So I can have someone who looks at me, and says “I LOVE YOU,” and I know, from the bottom of my heart, that they really and truly mean it. Wow. That sounds kind of selfish, doesn’t it?”
“I think it sounds perfect. Mama?”
“Yes.”
“I LOVE YOU. AND I JUST WON THE GAME.”
“You little monster!”
“Mama, what’s your least favorite part about being a mom?”
“That’s easy.”
THIS is my life.
“Mama, are you going to finish that glass of water?”
“Mama! I’m so thirsty! I need a drink right this very minute!”
“Mama, can I just have a sip of your tea?”
“Mama, I need a drink. Can I have your water bottle?”
“Can I have your cup?”
“Can I have your glass?”
“Can I have your mug?”
“Can I have your [insert any other drink receptacle here]?”
And the problem is that I don’t share drinks with my children. (Once they’ve drunk, it’s sunk.)
Not since January 16th, 2007.
That was the unfortunate time I took a swig of my water bottle and realized that the little tiny thing that had just “had a teensy, weensy sip” of my water had left behind some half-eaten cashews.
I’m gagging just thinking about it. And it was over SEVEN years ago. (And luckily it was before I was diagnosed with a nut allergy.)
*Shudders*
This is the reason why my nightstand often looks like this.
No open water bottle is safe.
Ever.
Sometimes I dream of a world where I can drink my drinks safely without the possibility of theft, or half-eaten food particles.
But then I’d have no one to play with my hair or watch crappy tv with.
And I’d be alone when Daddy goes on business trips.
And there’d be no one to unconditionally love me.
And there’d be no one to beat me at Perpetual Commotion.
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When I went to overnight camp, we wrote letters home three times a week. For my parents, this was their only form of communication with me. I was gone for four weeks each summer (sometimes eight!) and my mom would have to sit and wait by the mailbox for any hints, signs, news from camp. She didn’t know what my friends looked like, if I was wearing clean clothes, or if I was even wearing a smile.
Now, it’s much easier to {stalk your kids and} get a sense of what your kids are doing at camp.
Every evening at around 10pm, I open up the camp website, login, and go through about 200 new photos from that day. I can see my kids in the lake, rock climbing, eating, hanging out with their friends.
I can see when they are eating s’mores and when they are on overnight trips or even when they have color war. I can see when they have bagels and cream cheese for breakfast. And I can see smiles. They are happy. THEY ARE HAPPY.
I can see, though, how this system can quickly become more of a problem than a solution.
“Why isn’t my son in any pictures today? Is he sick? Is he homesick? Is he unhappy? Has he run away from camp? WHY?”
“Why does my daughter look upset in that photo? Does she hate her activity? Did she have a fight with her besties? Is she sleeping enough? Is she eating enough?”
“Why does my child wear that same green t-shirt in every photo? Is she changing her clothes at all?”
I’m sure that camps get phone calls from hysterical parents demanding immediate answers. I’m sure that moms and dads read way too much into every single photo they see, I’m sure they inspect each shot with a fine-toothed comb, making sure that (among other things) their child is using her neatly packed fine-toothed comb.
I look at these photos as just a little teaser, a little glimpse, a little taste of camp. I love seeing them, but I don’t over-analyze.
(Except for the fact that I do really want to know about that boy Emily sat with on the bus...)
I see their letters the same way—little snippets into what’s actually going on at camp. The truth is, really, that I don’t want to know everything. I want them to have their own experiences. After all, isn’t that why I sent them away in the first place? To let them have that little taste of independence?
As long as they are not calling me from the camp to tell me that my children have run away and have tried to hitchhike home or that they have ebola, I’m happy with whatever is going on, whether or not I get to see any of it or hear about any of it.
Emily sent me long letters filled with stories and tidbits about her friends and her bunk and her activities and what clothing she is wearing. She writes poetically, and writes exactly the way she speaks. Josh used to send me jokes that he thinks I would appreciate. Isabella sent me one-liners filled with exclamation marks and smilies.
From them, that’s all I need.
…and I can worry about the green t-shirt when she gets home. Or maybe not even at all.
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