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Confessions of a Crazy Camp Mom

So, a really bad thing happened in my neighborhood.  No, it’s not a shooting. Or a kidnapping.
It’s a Baskin-Robbins and a donut shop, next to each other, on the corner. The corner that I pass at least five times a day. A corner that also holds the grocery store and drug store I frequent for my daily sundries.
The problem is, the entire half-mile radius smells like a donut ice cream sundae, which manages to waft through my car’s air vents, even though I have them set them to “recirculate.”
Most days, I am impervious. I have exercised. I have eaten well. 
I have upheld my semi-high standards of living.
Some days, I am not.
Some days, like today, when my kid has been at camp for three weeks, and I’m starting to forget what she looks like, smells like, and I haven’t seen a picture of her on the camp website for three days, and I’m starting to fantasize about how much I’d like to pick up her dirty socks off the floor or scrape her spat-out toothpaste out of the sink.
It’s that bad.
Dad took litt…

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