Ah, Camp

My sons have gone to the same overnight camp for years, a decidedly non-glamorous place that offers no particular speciality except a series of inside jokes, nicknames, and customs that baffle us but sustain them through the cold winter.

The week before, our house is a staging area to iron on nametags, label bottles of shampoo and odd pieces of sports equipment, and unearth ratty towels and laundry bags for their annual use. By this point, they are responsible for stuffing it all into duffle bags and backpacks. We have “last dinners” and “last breakfasts” of their choice. They make calls to grandparents and leave “away” messages on the various IM, facebook, and other electronic means of communications.

We drive up the camp road through acres of grassy fields, a torpid pond, the “lower social hall” (as distinguished from the “upper social hall” further up the hill), and the pool. Both boys look left and right, and sigh, “Ahhh.”

When we return home without them, we look around at the items strewn around the house that did not make the final cut–baseball caps, half-emptied bottles of suntan lotion, mouthwash, belts. (Who needs a belt at summer camp?) Within a few days, we’ll clean up the detritus and be adults, as opposed to “the grown-ups,” for a few weeks. We’ll eat dinner when we want, with lots of vegetables. We’ll see movies and go on a trip, staying in hotels that are not known for their pools or cheap family rates.

They’re at camp for kids, and we’re at camp to prepare ourselves for when they leave home for good.

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