I have somewhat of a reputation for throwing my kids into unfamiliar territory. After-school activities, camps, sports. We don’t subscribe to the “as long as they know one other kid going” method for choosing environments for our younglings. I’m not even really sure why we do this,  since I would have hated my parents if they just threw me to the wolves like that, if they just opened the car door, tossed me out, and waved.

We probably do it because our kids don’t seem to mind it one little bit.

Man, I really wish I had had my children’s childhoods. 

A tremendous, nauseating wave of Mama Guilt passes over me each time I drop one of my three baby bears into a new situation.  I often sit in my car and spy for a few moments. Just a few, just to make sure. Mostly in those first few minutes my kids are off and running—smiling and laughing and completely unaware of my whereabouts (Mama who?) but sometimes, sometimes I see my little one standing there, unsure and alone.

Alone.

Why am I not the kind of mother who assures that they know at least one person, I wonder to myself. Surely, I am the worst mother in the world. I worry. Hoo boy do I worry. Are the other kids ignoring him? Is she eating lunch alone in the bathroom stall like Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls? Is she counting the minutes until I show up, ready to blame me for a really bad day, ready to tell me that there’s no way in heck she’s going back tomorrow?

But then. I pull up at the end of the day and the answer is always the same.

“I had the BEST day ever.”

Josh loves baseball camp. 

Maybe I’m doing something right after all.