Camp Week

There's two big trunks in my dining room, filled with towels and toothpaste, hairbrushes and raincoats, flashlights and sunscreen, and ziploc bags, each with a clean shirt, shorts, socks, and undies. One bag for each day at camp, plus one. If this year is anything like last year, at least half the bags will never be opened.

This will be the second year at camp for my kids. Last year they had a good enough time, although my son was more homesick than my daughter. For the first few weeks back home, he was adamant he would not go back this year.

Of course, after my daughter faceplanted on a tree when she went sledding one winter, she vowed never to sled again. That didn't last long either.

By November, he was already talking about what he was going to do this year.

We grow and we learn.

But of course, there's always questions.

"What if they don't like me? What if I don't make any friends?"

This wasn't coming from my kids. This was from STBEW.* The camp had put a call out this spring, looking for volunteers to help staff the camp. I showed the letter to her, and she decided to see if they could use her help. They could.

I love my kids. Having a week without them is a bit difficult. A week without STBEW around? Not so difficult.

I laughed. I thought she was kidding. She wasn't.

"You'll be fine," I said. "You're quite capable, and very likeable."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are," I replied. "If you weren't so damned likeable, you wouldn't have gotten away with half the shit you pulled."

Well, I have to give her credit for voicing her fears.

When I was a kid, my parents had no fear. None. At least, that's what I thought. That's what they showed me. Everything was done with confidence. I thought adults knew everything, and could do anything.

When I was about 12 or 13, I was watching my Dad in his workshop. He was building an attachment to the laundry chute. He cut a piece of wood to the wrong size. "Well, that just proves your Old Man ain't perfect," he said.

That was news to me.

It wasn't until much later that I discovered the truth. Discovered may not be the right word. I realized the truth. My parents grew up in the teeth of the Depression, in southwestern Pennsylvania. For many years of her childhood, my mother's toilet was a stream that ran behind the shack where she lived. Her bathtub and kitchen sink were slightly upstream. My dad went to school in Pittsburgh with a false last name, because in those days being Polish wasn't the best thing to be in that town.

They worked very hard, and with almost no guidance, were able to build a very comfortable upper-middle-class life for themselves. There was a lot to be admired there. However, one thing was given short shrift: emotions. Especially, the one that dominated my mother's life: fear.

Mom was afraid of everything. But she never talked about it, never admitted it, never dealt with it. It was so prevalent in everything that happened, that I never even noticed it. Like some low-level mechanical hum in an office building, after a while it's only really noticed when it's gone.

Even her love was filled with fear. So much so, that it has taken me quite a while to untangle the two emotions. And it's taking me some time to work through it.

So, I pay attention to my fears. I do my best to examine what it is that frightens me in situations. If there's a good reason to be afraid in a situation, then maybe it's not the right place for me to be.

I still have fears. I let my kids know this. But I also show them that I don't let my fears run my life. I work at doing things that need to be done, even if I'm afraid of doing them.

STBEW left for camp this morning. The kids go tomorrow. They'll have fun. My son spent his week last year in a bit of fear. I don't think it will be as prevalent for him this year.

I hope my ex-wife's first year at camp goes well for her.

Yeharr

*STBEW=Soon To Be Ex-Wife