Camp

When any teenager goes away to camp, the hope is that the experience will help them become a little more sure of themselves. A little more independent. When my son went to a tech camp recently, I made him pack himself… (one pair of underwear, 9 hats), I made him fill out all the forms (Emergency Contact: Jeff at Pinkberry) and I dropped him off knowing full well he’d forgotten his bathing suit. They have to learn sometime, right?

For two weeks (all the while keeping in constant contact with Jeff at Pinkberry) I waited to see who he would be when he came home. More argumentative? More mature? More grateful? (Kidding.) We drove home, I sent him upstairs with his suitcase, started dinner and went up to find that he’d taken a shower, cut his nails and was on his computer. In the middle of the room was his empty suitcase.

Watch what happens.

“Did you have a great time at camp?”
“Yeah I did. What did you do while I was gone?” he asked.
(Searched your room, ate your Easter candy… ) “Not much.”
But Oh My God, he’d asked what I did while he was gone. This was really encouraging. I kept going.
Where are your clothes?”
“In the laundry.”
He put his clothes in the laundry! I kept going.
“Is that where you plan to leave that suitcase?”
“No. I’ll put it away.”
He’s planning on putting his suitcase away! I kept going.
“Did you put your shoes downstairs?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“See what?”
“Well I see your shoes everywhere, that you’ve left your cut fingernails all over the desk and your towel on the floor.”
“Well, yeah but…”
“And you lost your pillowcase, right?
“I switched rooms and the maintenance guy…”
“Forget it. I’ll take care of everything. Go back to your game.” (Oooooh. Martyr-Mom. An exquisite role and I was born for it.) I picked up his towel, threw out the fingernails, put his suitcase away and feeling way too satisfied, shook my head at him and walked out.

***

When I was 16, my parents went on a vacation and left me in charge of my three younger sisters. I drove, cooked, did laundry, checked homework and slept with my boyfriend in my parents bed. (Oh give me a break, I was sixteen!) A few days later, my parents came home. My mother didn’t even take off her coat. She walked directly to the laundry room, pulled the lint trap out of the dryer (which I must tell you I didn’t even know existed) and scraped out a kitten sized wad of grey. “Look what you did,” she said, “you almost broke the dryer.” I remember feeling frustrated and angry. I remember I’d been really proud of myself for all the work I’d done and in one simple move it was gone.

***

Of course, that’s exactly what I’d just done to my son. And now I’m sure he’ll look back on this for years and resent me for not recognizing and celebrating his maturity. He had managed to grow up a little and I took it away from him. I had angered him on a deep and basic level.

Which occurs to me might be exactly how I begin the process of getting him the hell out of the house.

Rae.