overnight | Unmotherly Insights

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.

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.