As you know, Georgie has asserted (continually) that he “hates” camp. So, imagine my surprise when he got off the bus today with a blue ribbon hanging from his backpack. Here’s what it said:
George (trust me, I checked to be sure it was his!)
Bunk 13 (yup, that’s his bunk, got the right George) (like there are any others!)
First Place for Most Caring Camper
That made me feel better. And then he posed with the remnants of Crazy Hair Day:
Methinks he might not hate camp as much as he claims…
Harrison loves camp. Everything about it, right down to the disgusting bunks, the omnipresent sand and the graffiti laced walls. He spends the bulk of his school year anticipating the upcoming summer and dreaming of the life he leads there which, in his mind, is far superior to anything here. His camp friends are his best friends and we are grateful for the availability of cell phones, email, Facebook and IMing and their ability to keep him in constant contact with them throughout the year. Having earned his five year pen at the tender age of 13, I think it is safe to say that he is a lifer.
Georgie…not so much. My crack parenting has tuned me into this phenomenon. That, and his announcement most mornings that he hates camp. In an effort to get to the root of the problem, I ask the obvious questions:
1. Is it the bus? (I always hated bus rides – there was invariably someone kicking my chair – or me theirs – someone announcing car (or bus) sickness and threatening to throw up, and there were always too many stops before we got to mine.)
2. Is it the lake (and I use the term loosely)? (While lake/pond/ocean swimming is eden for some, I always prefer a pool. I have successfully blocked out thoughts of the mix of chemicals and human elements and do not, like some, feel like a pool is akin to a community bath.)
3. Is it the counselors? (They all seem perfectly nice to me. In fact, the one blonde cutie seems right up his alley)
4. Is it the food? (Okay, no one but myself to blame for that one as I send lunch everyday. However, in my defense it is required that I send a dairy lunch each day which certainly limits the depths of any creativity I may want to exercise.)
5. Is it the kids? (This particular camp does seem to have a higher number of nerdy kids than the average camp, but I am quite confident that there are plenty of fun ones in the bunch)
6. Is it the activities? (C’mon, is there really all that much difference in activities? I mean, gimp is gimp, right?)
7. Is someone being mean to you? (In all likelihood, he is the giver, not the receiver!)
And Georgie’s response? “No, I just hate camp.”
Are you friggin’ kidding me? So much for my planned call to the camp director to see what’s what. Armed with nothing but a generalized hatred, what I am supposed to say? Refusing to be one of those mothers that makes demands on caretakers of my children to create all happiness, I am screwed. I have another four weeks to cajole Georgie into seeing the “magic” of camp…any suggestions?
Today we were up and out of the house at 6 a.m. Well, we were in the car ready to back out of the driveway at 6 a.m. but Rich’s cell phone rang and he learned that there was a major work related issue that he couldn’t pretend not to know about. He delegated to the appropriate people (who were, as you might imagine, less than thrilled to be awoken at 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning by a call from their manager) and off we went – at 6:38 a.m. – headed up to Maine to visit Harrison at camp. He has been gone for four weeks (which on this, his fifth year away at camp, felt more like four days) and we were all looking forward to seeing him. A three and a half hour drive lay ahead of us (not to mention the return trip home) but we’ve been doing this for years so we were ready.
In the interest of background, it is important to note that Georgie was sent home early from camp on Friday due to a barfing incident. I, thankfully, and miraculously, was spared being the pick up parent as I was out of town on a girl’s vacation with Mary (I still don’t understand why they went from the home phone – which went unanswered – directly to Rich’s cell, but I am going with it) but learned about it when I got home. Yesterday he was fine, so we chalked it up to a fast and no so furious bug. So, imagine our surprise when, just moments after entering Harrison’s bunk (a place which had toilets just barely suited to the quick piddle) when Georgie announced he’d had an accident. That was an understatement. Suffice to say, it was a darn good thing I had thrown in a change of clothes for him. Hmmm…perhaps the bug wasn’t quite so fast after all. So, here we are, up in the wood of Maine, relishing time with one child while dreading the return home with the other.
Back to visiting day itself. Since many kids leave for home on what the full summer kid’s call visiting day, the camp has a tradition of having a “lock in” the night before. The kids, armed with their sleeping bags and scads of adrenaline, convene in the rec hall and, for all intents and purposes, pull an all nighter. The result, as you may have concluded on your own, is the same kid who is ecstatic to see you when you arrive at 10 in the morning is for total shit by noon. After our annual trek to Wal Mart to buy various (and mostly unnecessary) crap as well as the (far more necessary, in the eyes of the average camper) contraband (are we virtuous because the foodstuff we sneak in is kosher?) and a fine dining experience at Friendly’s in Windham, Maine, Harrison invariably falls asleep. This year I have evidence:
Now, I am all for the kids whooping it up and having a good time, but for Chrissake, we got up at 5 a.m., drove three plus hours to get there, have a kid with explosive diarrhea and a three hour ride back home and this is what I get? Not to mention the five grand we spent for the pleasure of this visit. One order of bitter coming right up.
We are home now. Georgie’s clothes have been washed, his body has been washed and my car, well, it will air out eventually. The important thing is that Harrison is having a great time, Georgie is going to camp tomorrow (maybe) and is asleep tonight. And no, he did not have any further explosions. That would have been unreasonable, don’t you think?
Much to Harrison’s horror, I created an account on Facebook several months ago. It started off innocently enough. Georgie and I were on a main street in Brookline on a cold winter’s day (not a pretty one – rather one in which the snow had turned from white to black, the embankments between the sidewalk and the parking meters was unmanageable and the winter season had lost it’s charm) when he spotted something one the sidewalk. He went to pick it up and my mommy instinct kicked in and told him to leave it where it was. It was then that I realized it was a Passport and when there is a Passport lying on the street, there is, in all likelihood, someone desperately searching for it. I picked it up, uncurled it from it’s frozen state and looked at the name inside. Of course it was Smith. (The sidebar is that this particular Smith happened to share a birthday with George, a fact he found miraculous!)
There were no people in the immediate vicinity so I took the Passport with us and tried to figure out how I was going to track Ms. Smith down. Upon arrival home I got online and went directly to www.anywho.com. I plugged in Smith, Beacon Street, Brookline and got about 30 or so Smiths. I began calling each one inquiring as to whether they had lost a Passport. I only got a few real people (most were at work) and no takers. After leaving a few messages I realized that my efforts were likely going to be in vain and looked again to see if there were any other identifying factoids I could use. I returned to the date of birth and, after doing the math (shut up, numbers aren’t my strong suit) I realized that Ms. Smith was 21. Hmmm…likely a renter, or living at her parents’ house, or crashing on someone’s futon (do people still have futons?) and less likely to be properly listed in the phonebook (do people still have phonebooks?) In an act of what I considered pure genius, I decided to go onto Facebook and see if i could find someone matching her name. Well, I found a lot of people matching her name (I’m not kidding, it really was Smith) and, with the thrill of the chase in full throttle, I created a profile so that I was able to “friend” every Smith with this first name in an attempt to match lost Passport to it’s rightful owner.
It only took three tries to hit paydirt. With the welcoming line: “Did you lose your passport?” response time was speedy. Ms. Smith came to my house that afternoon, collected her Passport and made it to her flight to Italy (again, I’m not kidding) without incident.
Mission accomplished, item returned, who needs Facebook? Hmmm…what is all this commotion about, why do so many people use Facebook, what am I missing? Out of curiousity, I used the application which allows you to see which of your email pals is on Facebook. I was amazed to see that over a dozen of my contemporaries (read: 40 somethings) had Facebook pages. Friends of mine! People I know! Geez, perhaps there are other people that I have known in other eras of my life who I could find. Before I knew it, I had found my college roommate, numerous friends from various work situations, nieces and nephews in faraway places, high school friends I hadn’t seen in over, well, many years. This was fun. Just yesterday I reconnected with one of my favorite work colleagues ever. We had lost touch over the years and just seeing her profile picture made me smile. We are back in touch, catching up and chatting regularly. All thanks to Ms. smith who dropped her Passport!
I am writing from the guest bedroom at my mother’s apartment. She no longer has a house. It was sold not long after my father died -for a variety of reasons, not the least of which my mother had wanted to move ten years earlier but my father loved his house so they didn’t.
The “repartment” as Georgie refers to it, is lovely. She wisely sold all her old (and I do mean old) furniture and moved in with all new things. The walls are beautifully adorned with artwork from not only her personal collection but from her personal easel. Some of my favorite work is that which she has created and I am in awe of. I, who am challenged by even the simplest of artistic tasks, could not ever imagine being able to create such expressive (and impressive) works, let alone be proud (and confident) enough to hang them on my walls.
This is my first sleepover with my mother since the week Harrison was born when she bravely moved into my house to play nurse and caregiver to me, Rich and this new baby who is now taller than I am. She was there to tell us we were doing things right and to be an extra set of hands during those incredibly frightening first few nights. Tonight I am here to play nurse and caregive to her following a “surgical procedure” she had earlier today. It was I who accompanied her to the doctor’s office and I who was the one reported to in the waiting room. The doctor carefully reviewed the procedure and necessary aftercare with me and I suddenly realized that this is what is meant by the sandwich generation. I was taking care of not just my kids, but my surviving parent. It struck me so odd…it was one of those, “whoa, I’m an adult” moments which stops me in my tracks.
My mother is asleep now and I am left with the following thoughts:
1. I always knew it, but am more sure than ever now, that I inherited by “great patient” standing from my mother. She is one tough cookie. (My father, may he rest in peace, was a terrible patient. Not only did he refuse to put on a johnny when asked, but when the nice nurse would, before a needle of any sort, warm him with “a little prick” he would retort, “it isn’t a little prick, it fucking hurts!” I could go on, but won’t.
2. My mother is, as my father always said, “the nicest person in the world.” After dinner tonight she genuinely asked me if I would mind cleaning things up (read: put the take out containers in the trash).
3. There is an odd comfort in knowing your mother is “resting comfortably” in bed while you are doing those adult things that your parents did once you went to bed at night. Boring and mundane, but somehow devastating to miss in the interest of sleep.
4. My mother has so many people who love and care about her. The phone has rung enough tonight to be irritating. But all from people wanting to be sure she was doing fine. (She is)
5. It is really funny to hang with my mother when she has loads of Xanax on board. Talk about loopy!
So, it is time for me to make up the bed and retire for the night. I will leave the door ajar enough to hear if she needs me during the night. I doubt she will.
