Emily is back from camp.
Her bags are unpacked, her feet are clean—finally.
She is already missing camp.
My life is essentially like that episode of Full House when DJ and Stephanie come home from Camp Lakota with inside jokes and stories and weird songs and they only wanted to go back to camp. Anyone? Anyone?
This is the face that both Danny Tanner and I make every time we hear a story we don’t understand.
“Oh hahahah. Mustache night *was* so funny. Uh huh.”
“Oh, that game of gaga really *was* THE BEST!”
“Remember when the GOPHER asked us to the banquet? TOOOO FUNNY! Gopher 2012, yo!”
Don’t get me wrong. I’d so much rather have her this way—a lover of overnight camp. From the moment I put my firstborn on a bus full of strangers, I worried. That’s what we do, right?
I worried that she wouldn’t be warm enough, that she wouldn’t make friends, that she’d be homesick, that she didn’t bring the right shoes, that she didn’t have enough bathing suits, that she wouldn’t eat, that she would get sick. It turns out, of course, that all my worrying was for nothing. Typical, I realize. Thanks to bunk1.com, I was able to see daily photos of my Emma. I took screenshots and put them up
annoyed the crap out of everyone on facebook.
Swimming, boating, rock climbing, baking, kayaking, dancing, singing, performing, eating, overnighting.
I mean, come on.
I am so thankful that this was a good, nay great, experience for her. She did things she has never done before. She made some great new friends who live all over the world (well, Michigan and Minnesota, mostly). She has inside jokes and stories she will never forget. She has a camera full of faces of people she loves. She is a camper for life. She came home looking older, looking more mature somehow. As if this camp experience left traces on her face was proof that this was the first thing she had that was all her own—no trace of Mama on this adventure at all. It’s all hers. This was the first big step towards independence. Soon she’ll be babysitting, then driving, then bringing boys home, then pledging a sorority.
There is no evidence of little girl left in my little girl, except for in stature.
(And maybe in the way she is already begging, begging, begging for me to register her for camp.)
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be over here signing my kid up for next summer.
And making the Danny Tanner face.
Want to read more?
Check out why Facebook hurts my heart right now.
Check out how I feel about googling teachers.
Check out the five-minute guide to alimartell.
Check out how the Olympics changed my son.