Letters from camp

Our son, who just turned 11, was born two months early – luckily, he avoided many of the “insults of prematurity” (what an odd phrase that is!) and suffered mainly from bouts of asthma, which he has since outgrown.

The effect on his parents, however, has been longer-lasting.

We have struggled for years with our (in)ability to allow him space to try activities in which he might just get injured. Neither of us is particularly athletic, so watching him take on sports has been a true test of our desire to jump in and rescue him rather than see him get hurt.

Nikolai does have a good sense of self-preservation, and he tends to either choose sports that don’t involve major contact or to focus on defense. Happily for us, his favorite sport (read: obsession) is fishing.

In recent years, Nikolai has expressed interest in activities that neither of us have any experience with: archery! riflery! camping! Honestly, I can’t imagine sleeping on the ground when I have a perfectly comfortable bed at home, and I have little interest in cooking over a fire when I have a really amazing kitchen at my house. So what’s a parent to do?

Enter Keewaydin, a venerable boys’ camp in Vermont, close to where my mother lives: all the activities he loves under close supervision by counselors who excel in them. The expense, although not insignificant, was manageable. He’d be near Grandma, if not us, “just in case.”

But how to let him go emotionally – THAT was the real challenge. Four weeks and 770 miles is huge.

The camp administration is very clear in their communications: You may stay up to an hour – long enough to check him in, meet his staffman, and set up an account at the camp store. (And then, dear parents, please go away.) No phone communication for a minimum of 2 weeks. We’re professionals, we know how to deal with homesickness, and we will make sure they write at least twice a week.

We committed, we shopped, we packed, and we worried. Then came dropoff day.

Charley

We were greeted in the parking lot by an enthusiastic redhead named Charley.

“Welcome to Keewaydin! Is this your first year here?”

“Yes.”

“You will love it. It’s the Best. Place. On. Earth.” (Wow – they know how to pick an ambassador!)

Charley helped us load Nikolai’s luggage into a garden cart, and off they went with his parents, sister, and grandparents in tow.

We met the staffmen (one is the son of a high school classmate of mine – yes, Vermont is that small!), set up an account at the camp store, and after tight hugs and near-tears all around, we left him there. That was hard enough – the knot in my stomach as we actually left Vermont for Michigan two days later was indescribable.

Back home, our conversations often end with, “If he were here, Nikolai would say….” or start with, “I wonder what Nikolai is doing/eating/thinking….”

Our daughter scolded, “Would you guys just chill out? You spend so much time thinking about him!” (I think she was shocked and more than a bit pleased to hear that I feel as though approximately 80% of my brain space is occupied by her and her brother at all times.)

Such a long week to wait for that first letter, and I have already written three! And then, finally, a postcard on Friday:

Camp letter

I laughed until I cried. Relief? Maybe, but even more a sense that the joke was on us. Of course he was fine. Of course he was having a great time.

Just a great reminder to feel the fear…and do it anyway!