Parental wisdom

So we’re dropping my 11 year old son, Levi, off at overnight camp in Northern California, (We should all be so lucky), and I find myself lamely trying to instill upon him every life lesson I can think of in the two hour time span it takes us to drive from Oakland airport to Sonoma.

“Levi, this is Berkely, California. This is where UC Berkely is. It’s a great University; a bastion of political liberalism though. You know it’s important to educate yourself on the issues and never blindly follow anyone else’s rigid political agenda.”

“Levi, are you going to scale that huge climbing tower this summer? Remember, just one foot in front of the other. Even trying something that terrifying counts as a success. You have to constantly push your boundaries. Only by stepping outside your comfort zone can you ever truly grow as a person.”

“By the way, make sure you write back at least once to everyone who writes to you at camp. People need to feel like their efforts are appreciated. Positive reinforcement goes a long way to securing the behavior you want to encourage.”

“And I did mention that your body is yours and yours alone to control, didn’t I? You’re a very handsome young man and you look much older than 11. No one should ever touch you in a way that feels weird or uncomfortable.”

“Don’t forget to share your things with your cabin-mates. Never let someone else go without when you have more than enough.”

I think I blathered on incessantly the entire ride up to camp. I’m pretty sure I threw out a few sincere “Don’t worry about anything!” and “Just have fun!” comments from the window as we were pulling away. About a mile up the road I started weeping inconsolably. After my husband reminded me that this was why he normally did camp drop-off duty solo, I managed to pull myself together.

“Do you think anything we try to teach him will ever matter?” I ask, not knowing whether or not I really want to hear the answer.

“Yeah,” my husband assures me. “But we just don’t know which lessons will stick. Some will mean a great deal and save him a lot of pain and heartache. But there’s no way to know which ones will resonate and which never penetrate the surface.”

I suddenly think about my own dad and all the things he taught me. How to accept everyone, no matter what they believed or where they came from. That it was always better to be over-dressed than under-dressed. That what was sexy was what wasn’t revealed. Never to salt your food before tasting it. Read ingredients in medications. If they’re the same, choose the generic. If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. It’s always okay to ask for what you want, as long as you do it with grace and humility. Be true to yourself. Mix your wasabi into a smooth paste by adding drops of soy sauce slowly while rapidly mixing with a chopstick (some pharmacist mumbo jumbo about solvents/solutions). Never let the weather discourage your adventures. It’s always darkest before the dawn…

The list goes on seemingly forever. I think it grows exponentially as I narrow the gap between my middle age and his final 68th year. I suddenly remember the Mark Twain quote he recited at my Grandfather’s 70th birthday party.

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

Parental wisdom surely grows stronger with age. I just hope I live long enough to see my boys recognize and acknowledge some of my own.

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Yes, chef!

I’ve hired a a personal chef. I know, money is tight. Times are tough. We’ve got a Bar Mitzvah coming in a little over a year. But, cooking’s never been my thing. My husband, Mark, loves to cook. He’s a great chef too. So I never bothered to force myself into culinary improvement mode. But with the economy plugging along like a slow train through Arkansas, Mark has had to work longer days and later hours and doesn’t have time to practice the culinary arts much anymore. So I did what all smart, savvy women of my…um…religious persuasion do. I hired someone to help. (Okay, its a joke. Don’t get all bent out of shape. I just felt like funning on the “jap” stereotype for a moment.)

But here’s the best part. I don’t have to pay him; the chef I mean. He loves to cook so much that he’s thrilled to have the position. He’s young and hungry and wants desperately to please us. In fact, the reason I offered him the job was because he was complaining so bitterly about summer boredom I just couldn’t take it anymore. It’s really a win/win for all involved.

His first dinner was roasted chicken in whole wheat pita pockets with an arugula pesto. It was served atop a bed of bright green arugula with scattered heirloom cherry tomatoes, then drizzled, ever so slightly, in an olive oil and aged balsamic reduction. The next night he grilled fresh lake Trout and served it with home-made garlic mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli. (I admit, I passed on the potatoes. I’m watching my carbs.) Tonight he served a fresh cucumber salad with rainbow peppers, grilled eggplant and Kale. Il primo piato was bruschetta, and our secondo, a four cheese tortellini lightly bathed in a tomato puree.

Jealous? I bet you are. But don’t hate me because I’m a genius. I just borrowed a page from Dale Carnegie’s archives and used my plethora of summer citrus to make a big old vat of that proverbial lemonade everyone’s always talking about. You see, my new personal chef is my 11 year old son, Levi. If you’ve been loyally following the blog, you know that the summer camp boycott is still underway. Levi and his 8 year old sidekick, Eli, (Remind me some time to explain our logic in choosing to name both of our children using a limited alphabetical roster of no more than four letters), categorically refused to attend any form of structured day camp this summer, opting instead for the joy, mirth and frivolity of hours and hours of backyard fun, pool play and summer reading. Needless to say, they were bored to tears within the first few hours of summer vacation.

Since we had already committed to our sitter, who had bypassed other job opportunities to work with our boys, we really couldn’t veer the ship and alter our course. Plus the whole “Love and Logic” approach we’ve been taking, insists that successful child-rearing occurs only through children making choices and living through the consequences that result from those choices. By making a poor, albeit harmless, choice to stay home all summer, their boredom might propel them towards finding something they truly would enjoy doing next summer. No, the “no summer camp” decision was one we were all going to have to live with, even if it necessitated me renting a small condo on the coast to save my ever dwindling sanity.

But lo and behold, I was visited by some angelic presence that bestowed upon me the greatest idea I’ve ever had; use my son’s natural talents and simply offer him some tools, (ie. money for groceries, minor instruction, a few healthy cook books), then let him go. And that is exactly what we’ve done.

So I now have a personal chef, an often reluctant sous chef (Eli), and a shred of sanity left. Sure the kitchen is never quite as pristine as I’d desire. Yes, I may be ingesting a few more calories than I’d like. But my kid is happy, engaged in something he loves, and he’s a really awesome chef! I wonder if this is how Gordon Ramsey started?

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Stressed out summer

I just read a blog about summer camp for at-risk youth and I realized that that meant mine. Because as of today, their third full day of summer vacation, they are at risk of being throttled, pummeled and bound and gag by none other than their delirious mother who is truly at the proverbial end of her rope.

Summer sucks. It’s hot. I feel perpetually lethargic. Stepping into my car is like being rolled through an easy bake oven. AND THERE’S NO SCHOOL!!!! Help me someone.

About two months ago, while I was furiously researching summer camp options for my 8 and 11 year old sons, my husband made the case that the boys did not want to go to summer camp and he insisted that they were too old to be forced to go. While I vehemently disagreed, I also have a very keen memory of my nephew, several years back, who ran away from summer camp and refused to ever go back. Besides, according to my husband, all the boys wanted to do all summer was frolic happily in our newly added swimming pool in the backyard.

“They’ll be bored,” I asserted. “Nonsense,” he proclaimed. “They’re kids. They just want to play. We need to let them be kids for once. Enough with the over-programming and the rushing between activities. They need down time. It’ll be good for them.”

Fast forward to today. They are mopey, depressive, and completely unimaginative. They don’t want to do any of the myriad of activities we had earlier outlined. They find each other positively detestable, so the idea of even being in the same room with each other is wholly unacceptable. They wont read, (an activity they cherished up until three days ago.) Board games are out because they can’t agree on which one to play. The only shared activity that will be endured is watching “Myth Buster” reruns over and over ad nauseum.

Yesterday my 11 year old son, Levi, decided to put together a professional resume so he could go out and seek employment. Anything would be better than being at home all summer. I have to say that his CV is really rather impressive. But his research was discouraging. He’s still got to wait at least four years to even be considered for a bagger position at Safeway.

My full time summer sitter seems to be sprouting grey hairs even as we speak (and she’s 20), and I haven’t been able to do a stitch of work since this awful summer break began. It’s like I’ve become this powerful magnetic suctioning device. They wont leave me alone for one single nano-second. I work out of my house most days. This is impossible. I even fled the domestic abode for a few hours this afternoon to work on a project at the Coffee Bean. But I was inundated with phone calls about who said what to whom, who wont stop talking, and what kind of gelatin is kosher. It’s too much.

I texted my husband that my life had become unbearable. I haven’t heard back. I’m thinking he’ll find a way to work late tonight.

I know there are moms who are good at this. I’m just not one of them. At a certain level, I accept that about myself. I have a lot of good traits. Parenting full time is just not one of them. But why isn’t that okay? Why do I feel so gosh darn lousy about myself because I need time to work and to be with adults and to challenge myself artistically? I need alone time. Why don’t they?

Look I am fully cognizant of the fact that in a few more years they wont want to have anything to do with me — ever. But right now that actually looks rather appealing. This clingy, needy, unable to walk to the mail box themselves thing is suffocating me.

I love them. I do. I would easily give my life for them. (Which at this point is also sounding rather attractive.) Taking a bullet would be preferable to 3 more hours of uninterrupted “Marco Polo” in the pool.

So I know this is asking a lot; but if anyone of you could tell me that this is normal or at least not identifiably psychotic, I would owe you a debt of gratitude. And if I don’t write back right away, don’t worry, I’ve just checked myself into some insanely expensive sanatorium near Sedona where they don’t take insurance or allow children visitation rights.

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Union busting

Please help me! My kids have unionized and taken a strict “no camp” position which they insist is non-negotiable. I, on the other hand, come to the mediation table with an equally undebatable policy that not only demands full-time summer camp, but also promises a complete maternal break-down and subsequent walk-out if my demands are not met.

Bottom line; I do not have the time, capacity or stamina to entertain my children 24-7 for 3 months of summer activities. I have come to believe that there are some women (even perhaps a few men) for whom this would not only be possible, but, dare I say, even enjoyable. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. I’m not even good at entertaining myself for unstructured stretches of time extending beyond 15 minutes. The combination of me and children for days at a time at record temperatures is like a highly combustible mixture of picric acid and sodium hydroxide. Not something you want happening around the house.

My husband has sided with the children. “You can’t force them to go to summer camp,” he admonishes. “Besides, it’s expensive. And you know how it’ll be to fight every day and force them to go against their wills.”

“Yes,” I concede, “It’ll be hell on a daily basis. But, if I were to put it in Dante-esque terms, I’d have to say that the daily tiffs were more like the first circle, while staying at home with them from June through August plunges into the ninth.” My husband stared at me in bewilderment. He’s not a big Alighieri fan.

“They’ll play together,” he proffers with the simplicity Jack the Dullard. “Yeah,” I reply sarcastically, “Until one of them gets mad and hits the other with a croquet mallet. This is a horrible idea.”

“OK, we’ll hire someone,” he concedes, realizing that unless he’s ready to reenact a modern day version of Medea, he’d better start coming up with a Plan B. “We can use the money we would have spent on summer camp to hire sitters and then they can hang out, relax and swim everyday. It’ll be awesome.”

At this point, I am virtually speechless. I do manage to spit out a single intelligible phrase. “They will be bored in three days time.” Then he slams me with the argument I abhor most. “Well, I didn’t go to summer camp and I managed to entertain myself all summer long. They’re kids. They just want to play.” Then to add insult to injury he adds, “You know, summer camp is an option, not a god-given right. You act like every kid is entitled to go to summer camp.”

“No,” I harshly retort, “Every reasonably sane mother is entitled to send her children out of the house for at least six hours a day. I don’t want to end up a gelatinous puddle of tears every day by the time you get home from work. Trust me, this will not make anyone happy.”

To be honest, I am used to getting my way when it comes to family issues. I often rely heavily on the “I’m the mom, and what I say goes” philosophy of family dynamics. But somehow in this case, I’m not feeling up to waging that battle.

So, we’re going for it. The boys and I will be hanging out at the pool this summer. Feel free to stop by…anytime. We’ll just be here…doing nothing…all day…every day. Dear Lord, please help me find some sort of mental sanity, internal patience, and emotional serenity for what I am about to endure. And please take note that I am on the record saying this may be the single most cataclysmic parenting decision we have made to date.

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Kids say the darndest things.

Maybe stationary and writing utensils should be verboten at camp!

I stood there for a long time looking at the letter. It felt so light. I thought that was funny. How something as weighty as what could be inside could feel so…flimsy and insubstantial. I had just returned from the gym where one swollen-eyed mom had shared her devastating sleep-away camp story to a gaggle of us who hadn’t heard from our own kids since they jetted off to overnight camp for the summer. What could be inside this envelope? I was almost too fearful to open it. “Maybe I’ll wait till my husband comes home from work,” I thought. That was too 1950s subservient housewife for me though. No. The letter was to me. I needed to open it by myself.

Images of my 9 year old self flooded my memory. My first summer at sleep-away camp was devastating. I wasn’t ready to leave home for 8 weeks. But, that’s what upper middle class families in the Midwest did back then. Moms needed a break so kids were shipped off to camps in the North Woods of Wisconsin and Michigan and parents got two months of time off from parenting.

And some kids did great for those two months. Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of them. I wrote treatises to my folks, promising to do all the chores I could think of around the house, and agreeing to let overbearing relatives with boundary issues cuddle and kiss me without complaint. If only they would come and take me home. The letters must have been heart-breaking. I never once thought about how they would affect my parents. Until now.

What if Levi, my 10 year old, was lonely? What if he was sad? What if he hadn’t made any friends and cried himself to sleep? What if he wanted to come home? I couldn’t bear to think of him so far away and so unhappy.

I also wondered if there really was some kind of karmic poetic justice in life. My gut-wrenching camp letters coming back to haunt me as an adult. I did have a moment of levity, however, recalling the second year I returned to camp and copied letters from Art Linkletter’s book “Letters From Camp.” I plagiarized the wackiest pages of that book and sent ‘em home, signed by me. I never imagined my mom would actually believe the ridiculous scenarios I created in print. I hope Levi never saw that book.

I took a deep breath and opened the letter. It was short but moderately legible. He was happy. He loves camp. He’s got friends. He’s got great counselors. Hooray! This was a good thing. No tear stains. No pleas to come home. He did say he missed me. That felt kind of nice. But my boy is doing well on his own. He’s only there for 12 days. I think that’s plenty of time for now. If he wants to go for longer in a few years, I’ll be okay with that.

But for now, I can rest easy, knowing that my young man is safe, happy and not trying to torment me with colorful letters from someone else’s imagination. Btw, mom, I’m sorry I scared you by copying Art Linkletter’s books. I was just trying to make you laugh. Honest.

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In defense of the peanut!

STOP BLAMING THE DAMN PEANUT!

Poor parents. We’re so misunderstood. We’re just trying to do the right thing and protect our kids from a devastating legume and then someone, well, a lot of someones actually, comes out and throws a bunch of annoying facts around and we have to face the truth. We are responsible for the plethora of peanut anaphylaxis plaguing our offspring.

I know, it’s like so hard to swallow (tee hee). Here we are delaying introduction of the dreaded edible in order to protect our youngsters, when incontrovertible research now shows that it is in fact this late introduction that causes the dangerous allergic reactions we are trying so hard to avoid. What was that? It’s true. The research shows that it is precisely our delaying the introduction of peanuts into our kid’s diets that’s responsible for the unprecedented surge in peanut allergies.

You see, there is a window theory that has dominated our nation’s feeding philosophies for years. It says that if you introduce foods too early, or too late, you will increase allergic diseases later in life. These allergic diseases include: Food allergies, Eczema (Atopic Dermatitis), Hay Fever (Allergic Rhinitis), wheezing, and Asthma. Many of us remember the dire warnings to avoid eating peanuts during pregnancy and to never feed a baby anything peanut tinged until at least 3 years of age.
In December 2008 the AAP released a policy statement saying that although solids should not be introduced before 4-6 months of age, there is no current convincing evidence that delaying their introduction has a significantly protective effect. This includes foods considered to be highly allergic, such as fish, eggs, and foods containing peanut protein.
Many studies now confirm this finding. One of the more comprehensive 5 year studies showed that delaying introduction of peanut protein to 2 or 3 years of age did not decrease the rate of allergies at all. In fact, there are convincing studies that show that earlier introduction of these foods actually decreases allergies. The best study that demonstrate why feeding early makes sense is a study done by Du Toit, et al in the Journal of clinical immunology, nov 2008. This study followed 5615 kids in Israel and 5171 kids in the United Kingdom, all of Jewish descent to assure a similar genetic makeup. The Israeli kids ate peanuts earlier and in larger quantities than the English children and had a 10 fold lower rate of peanut allergies than the UK kids.
Another paper, recently published in the January 2010 issue of Pediatrics by Bright, Et al., was a Finnish prospective cohort study. It concluded that late introduction of solid foods was associated with increased risk of allergic sensitization to food and inhalant allergens. Specifically, the study showed a significant increased allergic risk by delaying fish past 8.2 month and eggs past 10.5.
Here are a few convincing tidbits of information from various studies:
– Pediatrics July 2008; Snijders, et al: Delayed introduction of cow’s milk and other foods was associated with a higher risk of eczema (a type of skin allergy)
– Pediatric allergy Immunology, Feb. 2008; Prescott, et al: Tolerance to food allergies appears to be driven by regular, early exposure to these proteins during a critical early “window” of development.
– Acta pediar. May 2009; Wennergrad: Elimination of food allergens during pregnancy and infancy failed to prevent food allergy. Instead several studies indicate early introduction of foods like fish and peanuts may be beneficial. Conclusions: early introduction rather than avoidance may be a better strategy for the prevention of food allergy. (This was a meta analysis)
– Pediatrics Feb. 2006; Zutavern : Cohort study- no evidence to support delayed introduction of solids beyond 6 months of age to prevent Atopic disease.
Archive of Childhood Diseases 2004; Zutavern: late egg introduction increased eczema and wheezing.

The fact remains that food allergies are increasing at an alarming rate. (20 years ago we had never heard of “peanut free zones”). According to the Center for Disease Control (CDC), in 2007, approximately 3 million children under age 18 (that’s almost 4 out of every 100) were reported to have a food allergy. The prevalence of peanut allergies has doubled in the 5 years from 1997 to 2002 (Journal of Allergy & Clinical Immunology Dec. 2003.)

Maybe it’s time to reexamine our feeding philosophies. The facts are clear. Early introduction of high risk foods is the best way to avoid allergies later in life. But we’re all so darn afraid of making a mistake that we overcompensate and choose to delay, or even decline, the introduction of certain foods, like peanuts, and we miss the critical window of opportunity for safe introduction. Our fears are actually causing more harm than good.

And because this is such a hotly debated issue in our culture, the media has shied away from reporting these findings.
Maybe it’s time to tell the truth about peanuts and offer an alternative view of the beleaguered legume. Especially when that view is based on solid research, clear clinical data, and scientifically sound evidence.
So dare to stand up for the unfavorable protein! Go on, I say, break out the pb and j for junior; and the sooner the better.

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What I learned from the daily funnies.

There’s always a window that’s lowered by a millimeter, a woman’s hair is slightly shorter, a man’s polka-dotted tie turns to stripes. It’s really not so hard. So why am I blinded to these seemingly obvious differences?

I am obsessed with hocus-focus. No, that’s not a typo. And I’m not talking about magic, or the dark arts, or any kind of voodoo witch doctor stuff. I’m talking about that comic in the daily newspaper. You know, the one with two identical pictures and you’re supposed to pick out the six differences between them. They’re made for like five-year-old kids, so that parents can say something like, “Here you go, Junior, take a look at these,” and buy themselves a few extra minutes of quiet morning java time.

But here’s the thing; I can’t do them. I’m serious. I’m lucky if I can find 2 or 3 differences. But six seems totally unreasonable. I mean, how are children supposed to figure these out? The weird part is that it’s always the same stuff, and I still can’t figure it out. There’s always a window that’s lowered by a millimeter, a woman’s hair is slightly shorter, a man’s polka-dotted tie turns to stripes. It’s really not so hard. So why am I blinded to these seemingly obvious differences?

I think there is something else going on here. Some kind of psychic rebellion, a repressed emotional resistance to noticing the blatant, the conspicuous, the glaring. Perhaps it’s just a trick being played upon my feeble psyche by Maternus, the omniscient goddess of all things maternal. Maybe she is mocking the fact that I meticulously note every out-of-place ringlet upon each of my children’s tossled tops and can’t help but comment on their faintly stained t-shirts and popsicle blue lips.

As a mother, I admit my compulsion to scrutinize every aspect of my kid’s personas. It’s like I’m unable to keep my eye on the bigger picture; my children’s kind hearts, their graceful spirits, their unending curiosities.

Maybe the message is to stop focusing on the minutia altogether. Because even when you do catch that missing bow-tie or slightly tilted picture frame, you still end up missing a whole bunch of other stuff and losing the game.

Hmmm…that’s a pretty lofty lesson coming from the daily funnies.

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Sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar

“I don’t want to get wet!” my six-year-old son Eli screamed emphatically as we entered camp on the penultimate day of the session.

“Shit,” I thought to myself. “I did it again.” It had been a hellish morning. We were already 20 minutes late, and I’d forgotten it was water day.

“But I’ll get you some extra clothes from the office,” I countered, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m sure lots of kids wont have swim suits. They always have extra clothes.”

“I don’t want to get in the water,” he insisted. “And I’m not wearing someone else’s clothes. Will you just forget it.”

After one more failed attempt to convince him that he could at least play in the water and let himself air dry, I gave up and kissed him goodbye, certain that if I’d been a better mother and remembered his water attire he’d already be happily frolicking in the baby pools outside his classroom. As I got into the car, I tried to talk myself down. “Everyone makes mistakes, Debra. Don’t make this into a bigger issue than it is. He’s probably already forgotten about it.” But much as I tried to let it go, my “you suck as a mother” gene kicked in and I knew I had to do something. I made a bee line to the nearest Old Navy. Hurrah for the end of summer sale. For 32 bucks I got a swim top, trunks, sandals and a beach towel. I was back at camp in a record 10 minutes.

When I arrived, all of Eli’s camp buddies were splashing with abandon. Eli was seated inside with his teacher filling home-made lava lamps. “Hi,” I smiled holding up my bag of swim treasures.

“Hi, mom,” he smiled with a deep sense of joy that told me I had done the right thing. I scooped him up and showed him what I bought. He hugged me gleefully. Then I started pulling off his shoes, socks and t-shirt. But he pulled away. “Mom, please!” he insisted. “I love what you got. I’ll wear it at home today, after camp. But I don’t want to get in the water right now. I already told you that.”

I stared at him cluelessly. “But I thought you were just saying that because I forgot to bring your swim stuff from home.”

He looked back at me with a baffled expression that questioned the logic of such a ridiculously flawed assumption. “Um…no. I just don’t want to get into a baby pool. I’d rather go in a real pool when I get home from camp.” He hugged me and returned to the lava lamp filling station. Then, with a dismissive way he added, “See you later, mom.”

“Um…okay…” I stammered, still holding onto my Old Navy paraphernalia. I’ll just leave it here by your cubby,” I went on, “You know, in case you…change your mind.”

“I wont,” he chirped cheerfully. And with that, I dejectedly slunk from the room.
Sometimes as adults we get so used to people not saying what they mean we don’t recognize the simple truth when it hits us squarely upside the head. Maybe listening better and taking my kids at face value is the lesson I should take from this experience. Maybe I just need to stop reading into everything my kids say and do. Maybe if I stopped projecting my own insecurities onto my children we’d all be a whole lot better off.

Maybe sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar.

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Love Letter

A Letter to my son

Dear Levi,
I am afraid. That’s not something you want to hear from your mother I know. That’s why this letter wont find its way to you until you’re much, much older. But I am.

In a few weeks you’ll be going to overnight camp for the first time. You’ll be more than a phone call away. You’ll be out of my voice’s reach. You’ll be on your own for the first time ever. Yikes.

It’s not that I don’t think you’re ready or capable or strong enough. I clearly do. I wouldn’t be sending you if I had real, factual reasons to doubt your competence. The truth is, the issues, which are all looming heavily, are my own issues. Issues from my past, historical fears, ancient anxieties. Being a mom can be really complicated sometimes. Kind of messy when it comes to emotions and baggage and holding on to old hurts and wounds.

You see, I too went to sleep-away camp when I was 9 years old. But unlike you, my parents didn’t really evaluate my readiness the way we’ve tried to do. Back in my day, overnight camp was just what you did. My mom needed a break from mothering, and so even though I’d never managed a single successful sleepover away from home, my parents sent me to a beautiful Northern Wisconsin oasis for two entire months.

I wasn’t ready. I was desperately homesick, painfully alone, and utterly terrified. As I look back upon my life, I know for certain that that 9 year old 8-week respite for my folks, cost me a significant amount of pain and defined the difficulties I would have in being on my own for most of my adult life.

I’m not blaming them. They did what most everyone in their socio-economic strata did with their kids for the summers. But it scarred me. As time went on, I developed an overpowering need to prove my readiness to leave home. That need, however, was consistently met with a dark, looming depression, anxiety and yearning for home that would sabotage all attempts to fly from the nest for the next 20 or so years.

As I aged, I became compelled to leave home; to prove to myself that I could be on my own, survive without my parents, overcome the pain and anguish of leaving my family. I went to Europe with a group of kids when I was 16. I remember writing letters to my folks about my loneliness and despair. I went to Italy as an exchange student during my Junior year of high school. I was miserable and ended up running away from my host family and hitchhiking around the country for the remainder of the summer until I could afford to pay my way home. I sought out semester programs in England, Ireland and again in Italy during college. My whole life was about finding a place for myself, far away from my home and family. And yet, every time I left, I felt those same 9 year old fears.

As an adult, I moved to California from Chicago and then to Phoenix to start my own family. It’s interesting to me as I look back upon my history and trace the path of my travails. I’ve been trying to prove for 30 years that I could successfully go away from home.

And so now, I’m sending you, Levi, to overnight camp for the first time. I hope that one day you will appreciate the deep dichotomy I’m experiencing around this issue. On one hand, you are so ready to go. You love sleepovers at other peoples houses. You’ve never called me once in the middle of the night to come pick you up. You are independent, strong and mindful. You will love making decisions for yourself and listening to counselors half my age who will gently guide you and be there as you need them.

You are only going for 12 days. I think that’s manageable. If you are unhappy, you will be home before you know it. 12 days is a far cry from 8 weeks. You will be there with our best friends who are like family to us. If you need anyone, they will be there to hold you, love you, console you, cheer you on, applaud you, etc… You will have a dear friend in your cabin. You will not be going this journey alone.

I have tried to stack the deck in your favor for your first big venture outside of my reach. I know, rationally, that you will be safe, cared for, and happy. You may have moments of missing us. We will surely have moments of missing you. But I believe deeply in my soul that this is something you need to do and something you are approaching with eagerness, excitement and just the right level of anxiousness.

So Levi, know this; I love you more than anything in the universe. I stand behind you. I believe in you. And I will send you off to sleep-away camp with a most convincing smile plastered across my frightened face, because that’s what mothers do. They smile when their hearts are breaking because they need to let go of their babies, and they need to let go of their own, overstuffed, tattered suitcases full of memories, hurts and lots and lots of baggage.