For no reason other than being born into the family that they were, my children are experiencing somewhat of a pinball-esque childhood. As it is, the elementary school that all three of my children currently attend is their fourth. They are like army brats without the army. We have moved to new countries, new neighborhoods, new school districts.

I sometimes worry that there’s a little bit too much Rachel Flax in me.

“Death is…dwelling on the past or staying in one place too long.”

(Oh, anything to be a little bit like Cher)

I have always been so proud of my kids for being able to adapt to any situation—because, hoo boy, do we put them in lots of these types of situations. After-school activities, camps, schools, I just dump them in new environments all of the time — and they know not a single person — and then by the end of day 1, they have made friends for life. They aren’t the kind of kids who need to “know someone.”

When it came time to consider sleepover camps, I was a little overwhelmed by the options for Jewish sleepover camps in Ontario. And if we are being honest, I was overwhelmed by the price tags as well. My mother suggested sending my baby to camp in the midwest, where I grew up, and where she currently lived. We looked into a few options and settled on Camp Young Judaea in Wisconsin. My sister had gone there, and knew many of the people who now run things. When we spoke with them and they promised to treat my baby as if she was their own, I was convinced and willingly handed over my checks.

And my daughter.

Now, you should know something about Emily. They really should slap her face on the marketing material for the Jewish camp experience. This child. She counts down the days until camp (from something in the 170-day range). She lives and breaths camp.

“Shabbat at camp, that’s my favorite.”

“Waterskiing at camp, that’s my favorite.”

“Bagels on sunday, that’s my favorite.” {insert song about bagels here.}

“Mifkad, that’s my favorite.”

Every single part of camp is her favorite. She lives it, she breathes it. And she somehow convinced us that this year we need to send her sister along for the ride. Her 8-year-old sister. The baby. The one who can’t go to sleep unless I am upstairs in the room next to her. The one who won’t pee in her bathroom because once upon a time three years ago there was a spider in there. The one who doesn’t brush her hair.

I’m not even sure how it happened, but before I knew it, Isabella was signed up for two weeks at camp. I have come to terms with this, sending my youngest away. I have already pretty much decided that if she wears the same outfit for two weeks, I don’t care. If she doesn’t brush her hair for two weeks, I don’t care. As a control freak, these things are hard to do for me, but I am doing it. I’m zipping my lip and refusing to pack her each day’s outfit in a labeled ziplock bag and I’m refusing to bribe her to remember to use conditioner.

But I *am* doing this.

Yes. I am pre-addressing envelopes.

Judge if you want.

She may wear the same pair of socks for 14 days straight, but she is sending me at least one letter so she can tell me about it.