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 little brother swimming, and I went to Baskin-Robbins ALONE. I ate my single scoop of Gold Medal Ribbon in a cone ALONE. At a table next to the families bonding over cream and sugar, and I was ALONE. And I was okay with that. No one asking for a lick, a taste, no one’s chocolately hands and mouth to wipe, no one even talking to me. I didn’t even bring my PURSE. No wet wipes or crayons or band-aids or all those other things without which your kid can’t venture more than a mile from home.

And it was glorious.

I enjoyed each and every ever-loving lick.

And why did I savor this ridiculous act of rebellion? Because my insides are shriveling up, and I didn’t know what else to do, other than open another bottle of wine, which did not seem like a good idea.

I miss her.

I miss her so damn much.

I miss her like head-in-your-hands, hiccup-through-tears much.

She drives me crazy on many occasions, but I ache for her proximity so much so that it hurts when her body is not close enough, even for me to get annoyed with.

I know she is having a wonderful time at camp, despite the intermittent complaints of a sore throat and not getting good sleep. It’s important to note, at this point, that I may or may not have called (and emailed) the camp, expressing concern over these revelations I receive in her letters.

I may or may not have spoken to a Millennial named “Brittany” or “Kaelie” who was clearly on her 5th or 6th “Crazy Mommy” phone call of the morning, and it was only 9:00 am. “Oh, yes, Ma'am, I was JUST reading your email and was JUST about to respond.” Of course you were, Brittany/Kaelie. 

But you see, you are not a mother, so you are not in touch with the emotion of fire ants marching across your insides after tossing and turning all night picturing your firstborn in pain, crying into her pillow.

And as a result, my daughter may or may not have been “paged” out of her morning activities and sent to the infirmary, which I’m sure she won’t be mad at me about AT ALL. And as it turns out, her throat is not hurting anymore, so it was all for naught, except now I can stop worrying.

Right?

Except I’m still worrying.

Does it ever stop? The worrying?

Like when they’re 50, and you’re 90, are you still worrying? 

I think I will be.


At least there will always be Baskin-Robbins.

And for now, stalking the pictures on the camp website.

Come to Mama!

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