Having never been to summer camp myself, I’m living vicariously through my daughter, who is working this summer as a camp counselor. The camp she’s at could be right out of a Wes Anderson movie: picnic tables by the lake, tiny, brightly painted cabins with bunk beds and screen doors; a mess hall with huge serving platters and ladles and pitchers lined up, freshly washed.
We visited my daughter the other day, for a brief 30 minute-stopover while we happened to be driving through the quaint Wisconsin town where she works. As she met us on the gravel lane between the road and the camp, I could already detect a difference, the way her messy ponytail bounced with every step. She looks casual and comfortable, as if she’s recently discovered that her skin fits her perfectly.
All up her tanned arms are woven friendship bracelets, and she goes through each one and tells me about who made it for her. She gives us a tour of the arts & crafts building, which smells pleasantly damp and has shelves lined with markers and glue and scissors.
My oldest son went to summer camp after 7th grade. I still remember picking him up, seeing his pre-orthodontia smile light up at the sight of his younger siblings, and the hug-a-palooza that ensued. He was covered in mosquito bites, and seemed to have grown about 3 inches. After only two weeks of not seeing him, I was convinced his voice was lower.
Seeing my daughter now, my heart tugs a little. She is my youngest child, so letting go is a bit more bittersweet. Even though she already has a year of college under her belt, her time working as a camp counselor for only a few weeks seems to have aged her in a different way. She is more grounded and more confident. For the brief moment I see her interact with a camper, an eight-year old named Dorothy, I see a kind of patient wisdom come over my daughter’s face. Where college is teaching her to think, discuss, and challenge peers and older adults, summer camp is bringing out another side of her. She is there to nurture, to think of others first, to make sure the little kids have fun in a safe place. Since she was their age not so long ago, she seems to know instinctively what they need. Dorothy has lost track of her brother, and wants to find him. My daughter listens patiently, nodding and leaning in slightly. Then they’re off, skipping across the campus, while I marvel at this young woman I’m just starting to know.
This brief visit is precious to me, since there’s been very little communication from her since she moved into her counselor cabin nearly a month ago. As summer camp should be, she rarely has her phone on her, so my motherly texts of “How RU?” and “Having a good day?” often go unanswered for days. Then, out of nowhere, a flurry of photos without context will arrive: a sunset, a turtle, a selfie with her and her co-counselors, petting a dog who has sand on his nose and is unmistakably smiling. These are digital kisses that I will treasure. It’s her way of saying, “I’m happy. I’m living in the moment.”
She will return to me, sun-kissed and filled with memories that I’m not a part of. This is the strange transition of parenting: going from an onslaught of shared memories to only a precious few; each year since birth, her circle widens while I hold on to the tenuous spider web that connects us as she ventures farther and farther away. I stand perfectly still, as though she’s a feral animal, trying not to make any sudden movements that could spook her. I want her to come back to me, if only for a moment, and share some of those precious memories with me. I’ll store them away in my heart, marveling at how some experiences bring forth baby steps of growth, while others, like this job experience at a feature film-perfect camp, is helping her leapfrog into the adult she is becoming.
