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Now, more than ten years
have passed. As I sit down to
write, from the corner of my eye I am watching my three sons as they work
their way through tonight’s homework.
I ask that they focus on their homework and turn off the i-Pod and
IM that they attempt while simultaneously being quizzed on the week’s
word lists. (At least they’re no longer scaling furniture or trying to
ride the dog like a horse.)
Following a busy day of
getting them off to school, even more laundry, grocery shopping, working
in the schools, meal preparation, carpooling to karate, music lessons,
swimming lessons, play dates, home from school, serving dinner, overseeing
homework…I will tuck each of my boys into bed and tell them how much I
love them. I never grow tired
of this ritual; telling them how I love them as they drift off to dream
their sweet dreams. And, as I
drift off, I am reminded of the blessings that I have been given in each
of these children. In my heart
and soul, I know that I have worked every day to raise these beautiful
children and help them to establish the roots they need to grow and
develop into strong young men.
The roots seem
comparatively easy to what comes next:
the wings. It’s the
wings that have mothers across America up in the middle of the night with
heart palpitations and running to-do lists.
It’s the wings that have mothers calling Mike to ask one more
question about a child’s first year at camp.
After all, we tell ourselves, I’m
trusting him with my most precious child who has, until now, never lived
away from home.
We’ve been together
almost every day for, depending on the child, 6-12 years. My sons are as
much a part of my life as I am a part of theirs.
Over time, we have worked on the various stages of developing the
little support wings. I
remember watching and waving as he went riding off to the first day of
kindergarten on the big yellow bus. Who can forget their knobby little
knees as they jumped off the edge and into a swimming pool for the very
first time? Now they continue
on to the next stage of developing independence.
It’s a big one for both of us.
And, perhaps this is even harder on mothers?
At least it is for me.
Within this stage of
developing independence is part one: getting
them prepared and packed to attend Camp Chippewa.
I can vividly recall the first year that my eldest son was going
off to camp. I was going
through the motions of preparing him for camp.
I think I was in denial. I
wasn’t really sending my baby away, was I?
My husband, on the other hand, was ecstatic and thoroughly enjoying
the process. He had gone to
Chippewa for more than a decade (and I had been listening to Chippewa
stories since- well, our first date).
He assured me that there is no finer camp. (He is right.)
He knew exactly what needed to be packed and went through the Camp
Chippewa checklist with ease. (And,
by the way, for a man who always encouraged me to pack light, I was
particularly surprised with the amount of stuff he could literally cram
into the duffle bags).
For me, part one-section
B was planning to say good-bye without completely falling apart and crying
and blubbering at the airport drop off.
Now, after more than a couple of seasons of sending off my first
son to Chippewa, my husband still reminds me that embarrassing my sons at
the airport send off, with never ending hugs and kisses, and last minute
reminders to listen to his counselors, and to be careful by the water, and
to eat enough, and to wear sun block, and to change underwear everyday…
is not allowed. Instead, I
just say these things at each and every meal and every other opportunity
for the week leading up to camp!
The night before our
first son was to leave for camp, I watched as my husband closed up the
bags. I checked over the list
once more and then quietly put away the extra labels and iron that I had
used to carefully, lovingly label his clothing (some of which, it turns
out, always seem to make it home with someone else). Then, I went into my
future camper’s bedroom to check on him.
He was fast to sleep with a smile on his face.
Perhaps he knew, even better than I, that this was where he needed
to be going. Then, as I have
done every night since he was born, I whisper to him how much I love him
as he drifts off to dream his sweet dreams.
Honestly, I didn’t
sleep very well that night. I
tossed and turned. What if he
got lost? Would they know how
to treat an illness or worse, an injury?
How carefully did they train the counselors to deal with young
children? Would they watch him
carefully when he was near the water?
What if he misses me? What
if he’s hungry?
I woke up before the
alarm went off. My husband and
I loaded up our son and the gear. Then,
we honored our boy’s request for McDonald’s on the way to the airport.
My son and my husband ate very well.
I was nauseous. I watched through my sunglasses, unable to eat.
I kept my sunglasses on through the meal and for the remainder of
the car ride. I didn’t want
my eyes to give me away.
We arrived at the airport
and took the elevator up to the area we were told to meet.
Once there, I met some of the Chippewa counselors and staff.
They were polite, articulate, friendly, and kind.
I watched as my son walked casually over to the other kids and
began talking. I attempted to
refocus my attention to a conversation my husband was having with Phil, a
gentleman that had been at Chippewa when he was a camper.
I began to feel a little better.
Clearly this man was experienced.
Next, I saw another counselor arrive.
He was holding huge bags of McDonalds.
He smiled warmly and said that some of the kids arriving from other
cities hadn’t eaten lunch and were hungry.
I watched as my son politely declined the offer of McDonald’s but
easily sat down with the other campers and counselors to talk and laugh
together. At that moment, as
he turned his back to me, I knew he was saying good-bye.
A lump grew in my throat and my eyes began to well up with tears.
I pulled out my sunglasses and quickly put them on.
My husband gave me a knowing glance and led me over to say our good
byes. I bent down to my son
and gave him a big hug. He
hugged me back and immediately returned to his new found friends.
I whispered, “good bye” and “I love you” in his ear.
He was already gone.
My husband gently led me
back through the airport. We
walked in silence to our car. Once
inside, I looked toward the back seat and saw the remainder of my son’s
Happy Meal. I absolutely fell
apart crying. I cried so hard
that I think I actually frightened my husband.
I sobbed and sobbed. I
missed my son so much that by heart physically ached for him.
We arrived home.
I took off the sunglasses and walked upstairs.
I walked into my son’s room and lay down on his unmade bed.
I laughed remembering my husband telling our son that, “at
Chippewa you will learn to make a bed with hospital corners so tight that
you can bounce a quarter off the top.”
Let the learning begin.
Later that night our
phone rang. It was JP checking
in to tell us that our son had of course, arrived safely, settled in, and
had eaten a good dinner. I
think I must have exhaled a very audible sigh of relief because my husband
asked if I’d been holding my breath all day.
I believe I was.
A few days passed.
And yes, life went on with a little less testosterone in our house.
I gave the other kids a little more attention, watched them develop
a new two-some relationship, and in fact- went on a few date nights with
my husband. In the meantime, I
also waited for our mail carrier every afternoon to bring me word of my
son. Finally, the “meal
ticket” arrived:
“Hi Mom.
Camp is great. This is
my meal ticket. Love, Benj.”
That’s it? That’s
all I get? My anxiety, tears,
and throat lumps long forgotten, I was not happy.
I showed the “barely-a-letter” to my husband who laughed and
said, “Obviously, he’s got better things to do.”
The next day, I wrote to
my little camper. I said I
know you’re busy but could you give me a little more information like
what activities you’re doing, how you like your cabin mates and
counselors, and if you’re getting enough to eat?
A week later I received his second meal ticket:
“I am taking tennis, archery, and riflery.
I like my cabin. I eat
breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Mary’s
cookies are the best.” Again,
my husband reminds me that he’s got better things to do.
Clearly!
The weeks fly by.
Before I know it, we are making the drive to pick up our son from
camp, I’m so excited that the drive seems to be taking forever.
Finally, we arrive. I
tell my husband that if he doesn’t hurry up and park, I’m gong to jump
out of a moving car. No
sunglasses and trying to restrain myself, I walk into camp.
Mike and Natalie Thompson greet us.
They are warm and very welcoming.
Natalie tells me that Benj is great and, checking her watch, she
says that he is on the range. Next,
JP and Camie approach. Again,
hugs and warm greetings. This
series of greeting is an affirmation.
My son is cared for and yes, loved by the people at this camp.
They have been his family and they are now mine.
And, speaking of now- where’s my son?!
I can hardly wait another moment.
Mercifully, they walk me
directly to the range where I immediately spot my son.
Is that him? I don’t
remember him being quite so tall? Has
his hair grown long? Instinctively,
he looks over and an enormous smile registers across his face.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared it is gone.
He regains his composure and casually waves to us.
This will simply not do. I
walk over and wrap my arms around my camper and it is wonderful.
“Hi Mom.” All at
once I am overcome with emotion. He
is looking so well. He shows
us around his camp- his home with enormous pride and joy.
He seems somehow older to me- more sure of himself.
I notice his confidence as he walks us through camp, nodding,
waving, and greeting various campers and counselors.
He is so comfortable here. This
is his world.
We say our good byes to
everyone at Chippewa. We walk
to the car as a family. Once
seat belted, I look to the back seat.
I see my son again for the first time.
I see him differently now and I know that he realizes something too
has changed. He is not the
same child who went off to Camp Chippewa.
He is better. He is
more confident and wiser to the ways of what it means to be a boy among
other good boys and fine men. He
has learned lessons that will guide him through life’s ups and downs and
challenges. These lessons have come to him because at Camp Chippewa,
sometimes it rains when you have just built your first fire.
And he has come to know that even the best of boys can accidentally
capsize the canoe and then need to be forgiven.
He has learned that sometimes you can’t get your serve over the
net but you are taught that the lesson is not in how the ball lands but
rather how you don’t give up and that perseverance pays off in ways well
beyond the outcome of the tennis match.
And, I have learned that it takes roots, wings, and the village of
Camp Chippewa to raise my fine sons. High
ho, high ho it’s off to Chippewa they go…
Deb’s
heart beats as a true Chippewa alum, being mother to two Chippewa campers
and one future Chippewa camper and wife to Chippewa alum Dan Mallin.
The family resides in Minneapolis. |
