I was feeling good about things (minus the bungee cord tying, which was above my technical expertise), really good. The girls came home from school with stories of a bonfire and songs, and, yes, they could bring their Silkies. Only when I looked at the growing pile of bug-sprayed clothes in the plastic bags did my eyes prick with tears.
When I picked them up from school the day before Camp Henry, they cheerfully got in their car seats. Caroline sat in her pink car seat on the left, Bea in her blue car seat on the right. We turned the curve down at the end of the street.
“Girlies!” I said. “Camp Henry is tomorrow. Are you so excited?”
Caroline’s face crumpled up. She pushed her worn Silky bear to her face.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I said. Her face scrunched tighter.
“Is it Camp Henry? I said. She cried. Her face turned red.
“Caroline doesn’t want to go,” Bea’s forehead puckered.
“Sweetie,” I said, not certain if I was talking to Bea or Caroline. “Do you want to talk about why you don’t want to go?”
“I’m not going either!” Bea started crying. Caroline’s tears escalated to heaving screams.
My face turned red. This was all wrong. I had been wrong. They were too little.
The Big Morning Arrives
The morning of Camp Henry, the dark sky threatened rain. The whole way to school, I clenched the steering wheel. The girls sat silent in their car seats.
The upcoming moment of good-bye had so many opportunities to go wrong. I imagined Caroline clinging to my leg crying. I would look at Jan and mouth, “Help.” Worse—and this had happened to me before—both girls could mutiny and refuse to get out of the car.
I parked the car on the sidewalk off Paris Avenue. The playground was filled with the screaming, moving kids. This was our moment of truth.
“The school bus is here!” Bea said.
“I see Makaio!” Caroline said.
I pulled the suitcases out of the trunk. They were lightweight. Surely not robust enough for the first night away from me. The girls’ Silkies were tucked in the outside mesh pockets.
The girls started heading off.
“Wait, Girlies. Stop.” I said. “Picture!” “Hurry,” said Bea. She looked toward the kids.
“I’m hurrying,” I said. “Get close.” “Got it!” I said.
The girls grabbed their suitcase handles and turned away.
“Bye!” I said. “Love you! Have fun!”
Bea turned around and waved. But Caroline kept going. She walked swiftly ahead, one foot in front of the other.
I slowly walked to my car. A single red rose, drumming, or a rainbow. These are the things I yearned for to mark this milestone.
I texted my mom. “Girls off to Camp Henry. Caro never said good-bye.”
“Brave girlies,” she responded.
Pictures came throughout the day. I eagerly scrolled through again and again. The kids on the bus ride. Setting up their bunk beds. Archery. Muddy boots. The kids all looked happy.
Late in the afternoon came a video of a giant swing—two kids wearing helmets and harnesses were attached and hoisted high in the air. A release cord was pulled and the kids soared through the air again and again. Clearly, this swing was for older kids, probably just 5th and 6th years. Daredevil kids. This is not something I would ever go on. Certainly, my kids would never go on this contraption.
Thirty-one hours after I dropped them off, I picked them up. The girls scrambled into the back seat. The first thing they said was “Where’s food?”
“I missed you!” I said.
On the drive home, they mostly ate. They wanted to know about my day without them. Had I been able to sleep or had I missed them too much?
"You Had to Be There, Mom.”
Throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, Camp Henry details emerged. The delicious gluten-free food, ghost stories, the counselor who’d been thrown in the lake, and the bonfire and giggling with the other girls in the bunkhouse. Again and again, they said, “We spent the night without you. We can’t wait for Camp Henry next year!”
Bea tried to tell me about a red line that one of the Camp Henry workers had told them to either stand on or to avoid but she couldn’t get through the story without laughing. Finally, she gave up.
“You had to be there,” she said. Caroline nodded. “Had to be there.”
I felt a little left out. I was always there with them. And now, they had experiences that they couldn’t even explain to me because I hadn’t been there.
Me Not Being There, Had Been the Whole Point of Camp Henry!
A few nights later, we were snuggled in bed. One round of water had been completed and we’d thankfully opted out of the Canterbury Tales. I was reading aloud with the girls’ warm bodies pressing against me.
“Mama, Caroline went on the big swing at Camp Henry,” Bea said matter-of-factly.
“Read,” Caroline said.
“You mean the rope swing thing that drops really far?” I tried not to sound alarmed.
Caroline nodded. She sucked her fingers. She snuggled her Silky close to her face.
“Read,” she said.
I read on, even though I wanted to make a big deal about this swing.
My Kid Had Chosen to Do Something I Would Never Do!
Even though it was a really big deal to me, it wasn’t a big deal to her.
My girls are second years this year. Already, Caroline has picked who she’s going to bunk with and Bea is plotting to stay up super late finger knitting. (Attention Guides and Camp Henry chaperones—please stop this rogue finger knitting, but don’t tell Bea who tipped you off!)
I am a little nervous about their night away, but I’m mostly giddy. My evening plans are to take a really long, hot shower and then I’m hosting my book club.
The girls are worried about me.
“We’re afraid you’ll forget we’re gone,” Caroline told me yesterday at breakfast. She took a forkful of sauerkraut and gave me a long look in the eyes.
“We’re afraid you’ll make us breakfast that morning and then come down to wake us up and our beds will be empty,” said Bea. She patted my shoulder.
“I absolutely will not forget you are gone.” I pulled them both to me and kissed the tops of their heads.