Posts tagged with ‘camp’
Life without emojis is so hard.
Look, I’m glad it’s not broken and I’m happy she’s celebrating with some cool new arm candy but the 11-year-old’s spelling def needs some work.
And sometimes it takes a good fall to remind you that your mom is totally awesome and always right and you should not have gone rollerblading on the boardwalk without those ugly, uncool protective pads because then you wouldn’t be stuck sitting here in the hospital with a possible broken elbow four days before you are supposed to leave for sleepaway camp.
Still love you kiddo. But safe beats sorry every time.
Is it weird that it still freaks me out that I am the mom in this scenario?
My kids are leaving for camp in five days and if you know anything about me then you know how much I am dreading this moment.
You know what I’m not dreading?
The moment they fork over their respective electronic devices and head off into a cell-free, wifi-free zone for the summer.
Wanna know why? Because stalking my kids on social media has pretty much become a full-time job, one that’s about as confusing and annoying as trying decipher the current relationship status of Justin and Selena.
Or, you know, something else a little less lame.
Here’s the thing.
Though I’ve been known to preach about the importance of keeping tabs on kids online, new social media apps pop up almost daily. And as our kids become increasingly efficient (read: sneaky) at navigating them without our knowledge, it becomes all the more difficult for us to monitor every single thing they see and do and say.
For the record, I’m not talking about sites like facebook and twitter… or even instagram. Our kids have long since 86-ed these parental party zones in favor of places like Vine, Snapchat, Kik, Ask.fm, Wanelo, Tumblr, We Heart It…
The list goes on.
And keeping up with it can be excruciating. Which is why I plan to power down my kids’ devices the minute they leave the building, pop open a bottle (or 10) of champers and hang up my career as a social media stalker.
At least for the next seven weeks.
If you’re not quite ready to join me, check out How to Keep Your Kids Safe Online over on the P&Geveryday website.
The piece offers some great tips for monitoring your kids online, as well as a solid set of guidelines broken down by age, which is key. But for me, the most important takeaway was simply the article’s whole “give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; show him how to fish and you feed him for a lifetime” vibe.
In a nutshell: Teach your kids proper etiquette and talk to them about being safe online, and you probably won’t have to oversee every single thing they do.
So simple it just might work!
In the meantime, I’ll be over here with my bottle of Veuve if you need me.
I was selected for this opportunity as a member of Clever Girls Collective and the content and opinions expressed here are all my own.
Only six days left til camp starts.
So in case I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’m sending both of my kids off to sleepaway camp this summer for the very first time.
Which means that after weeks spent amassing an assortment of egg crates, cubby cubes, personalized plastic clipboards, Crazy Creek chairs, and a variety of oscillating, color-changing, clip-on, light-up fans, our guest room has come to resemble nothing so much as an anthropologic site post-dig.
Which I guess would make me Margaret Mead.
Only with better hair and contact lenses.
But today the camp trunks have finally left the building
So now it’s time to move on to more important things.
Like sitting down to write my kids a letter.
While they are still home.
Like literally down the hall from me at this very moment.
Because if they don’t have a letter or 20 waiting for them on their bed when they first get to camp they will, like, spontaneously combust or something.
What? You didn’t know?
Sucks to suck.
Better grab a pen and sit the hell down.
Actually… scratch that.
Make yourself a drink first.
A big one.
Because writing letters is hard you guys!
And if you haven’t already stopped reading this to sit down and start you are now officially behind.
Also? You should probably know that before you even put pen to paper or hand to keyboard, you’re already fighting a losing battle.
Because letters to camp get no props that’s why.
Sure, we’ve all heard about all the hilarious letters FROM camp. There are, like, websites and book series and morning news segments devoted to that stuff.
But letters TO camp?
You can write them backwards, upside-down, or compose them completely on toilet paper. You can send up funny 8-page quizzes, messages in bottles, the most recent celebrity gossip. You can even fire off a mean Dance Moms recap from time to time.
And I may or may not have done all of these things.
But you know what you can’t do?
You can’t compete with a kid who writes home about the ‘diyareeya” he got on his shoes and the fact he now knows how to light his farts on fire.
You just can’t.
So while letters FROM camp continue to blow up like Kim and Kanye, letters TO camp will continue to get no love.
Which totally makes us Rob Kardashian in this scenario.
I’ll give you a minute to let that sink in while you go pour yourself another drink.
But try and pay attention while you imbibe.
Especially if you’re a first-time camp parent.
Because this is the part of the movie where Regina George swoops in to turn the shy, mousy girl with the frizzy hair into Prom Queen.
And yes I know I was just Rob Kardashion but now I’m Regina George so just go with it, K?
Anyway. There’s this little app called postagram.
Maybe you’ve heard of it?
And what it does is, it takes photos from your camera roll, your instagram or your facebook account and turns them into glossy little postcards you can type 180 characters on, address and then send — all without ever leaving your beach chair.
Obviously there are plenty of apps out there that do this. But postagram is by far my favorite. Mostly because the app is free (though each card costs 99 cents), and I totally dig the way you can pop the little instagram-ish square pics out of the postcard and save them like those paper dolls we used to play with when we were kids.
Which means that lame don’t-forget-to-wash-and-brush diatribe you just typed up on your iphone?
Totally going right in the trash.
Not quite feeling the Prom Queen vibe are you?
That’s because I haven’t told you the best part yet duh!
See, the magic happens when you download a picture of your kid from your camp’s website, then use postagram to snail mail it up to them.
Because what kid doesn’t want to get an awesome picture of themselves in the mail that they’ve never seen before? I mean, those poor deprived kids are probably going through mad selfie withdraw amiright?
But thanks to postagram, you’ve just become the new camp rockstar.
Or cockstar for short but that just doesn’t really sound right does it?
Seriously though… as much as we hate to admit it, there’s nothing our kids like more than taking, editing, and admiring pictures of themselves. And while a #nofilter postcard that you have to actually, you know, hang on the wall with poster putty is no substitute for an artfully composed SnapChat story, it’s as close as they’re gonna get for the next seven weeks.
In the spirit of full disclosure I should probably take a moment here to tell you that I am the inventor of postagram.
But wouldn’t that be an awesome plot for Romy & Michele 3? Someone should probably call Mira Sorvino STAT.
I am not even really sure how this blog post turned into a love letter to postagram (irony?), though the
two three glasses of wine I just downed may have something to do with it.
The truth is, postagram has made my letter-writing experience a hell of a lot easier and I would totally buy the real inventors a beer should our paths ever cross. And then once I’d gotten them nice and drunk I’d persuade them to join forces with CampMinder so that we could view our camp pics and send postagrams all in one shot.
Because it’s summer and I’m feeling lazy and totally victimized by the humidity, that’s why.
And because it would just be so fetch.
Let’s make it happen.
P.S. I swear they didn’t pay me to write this, though I can’t promise I would have turned them down if they did.
The age at which your kid starts wearing Brandy Melville, signaling the fact that she just discovered a fashion trend before you did.
I guess I missed the memo on this one because, you know, I’m forty-freaking-four.
But you know who didn’t miss the memo?
Every single teenager on the planet, including my kid’s B.Mel doppelgänger right there in the background.
I know, I know.
Sucks to suck
If this isn’t worth running for, then I don’t know what is.
So there’s this blog post that’s been making the rounds this week about Visiting Day.
You know the one.
About the “Running of the Jews”?
Something about it just doesn’t sit right with me.
Are you surprised?
Because The Running is totally a thing.
Like, TOTALLY totally.
It sounds awful.
But until you’ve been there, until you’ve actually run a mile in 4-inch wedges carrying a four-foot Dylan’s Candy Bar tower while simultaneously trying to keep your six-year-old from getting trampled, you think you know… but you really have no idea.
Because what you don’t yet realize — couldn’t yet know — is that the minute your car begins it’s long, slow inch up the winding camp road, all the emotion that’s been building up over the last few weeks will slowly start to bubble to the surface until it smacks you in the face and takes over your entire body.
This is why we run.
We run because Visiting Day is the best day ever and the absolute worst. Because our kids seem at once totally the same and yet completely different. Because the day feels in turns surreal and all too real. Because it drags on forever and goes by in an instant. And then the hug hello is suddenly a kiss goodbye and the next thing you know you are back in your car as if the whole thing never happened.
This is why we run.
We run because the minute the camp comes into view we suddenly find ourselves incapable of singing along to the radio or holding even the simplest conversation.
We run because there are butterflies in our stomachs that unnerve us like high school seniors on prom night.
We run because everything our husbands say is wrong. And they way they are driving is wrong. And now we’ve officially lost cell service.
We run because the adrenaline makes our hands shake as we fumble for our iphones to repeatedly check the time. 10:01… 10:02… 10:04…
We run because the tears burn as they hit the back of our eyes the second we park the car and plant our first foot on camp soil. Tears that we don’t even notice falling freely down our face as we finally envelope our child and breathe in their familiar scent for the first time in a month.
And only when we do will we realize that in all this time, over all these weeks, we haven’t really been breathing at all.
This is why we run.
Not in a race against other parents.
But in a race to see our children.
Not to prove how much we love them.
But BECAUSE of how much we love them.
Is it ridiculous to buy your kid a $100 worth of candy they only have 24 hours to consume?
Is it crazy to stock a cooler with sushi and shrimp shumai and bagels and schmears when the camp is giving away free lunch?
And is it insane to rush the waterfront with a big ass beach blanket in order to secure prime real estate like it’s Christmas vacation at the Boca Beach Club?
Unless it’s Visiting Day.
In which case all of these things are completely excusable and in some cases totally mandatory.
You just might not realize it yet.
Because while you were busy getting the color war swag and the rainbow loom refills and the personalized stamps, you forgot about something way more important.
Something that starts with an “L” and ends with an “E” and no I’m not talking about licorice, athough you should totally bring that too.
I’m talking about love.
The unconditional kind.
And that’s what we are running towards.
We run towards it on shaking legs the minute the rope breaks without even realizing that we’ve started running.
We run towards it with pounding hearts and wet, cloudy eyes that barely register the determined strides of the parents on either side.
We run towards it like Toto… like Forrest… like Rocky and Apollo tearing up the beach.
Eye of the tiger, baby!
And yes we may have carts and coolers and tricked-out candy packages — all of which will be donated to Morry’s Camp for underprivileged children after 48 hours.
But that’s not why we are running.
We are running towards love for the simple reason that we know our kids are anxiously waiting for it on the other side.
Speaking of which.
If we’re being totally honest, we didn’t run on our first Visiting Day.
Because we thought we were too cool to run that’s why. And so we decided to take the high road and arrive fashionably late. By which I mean 45 minutes early.
Only in this case, the high road was already packed with cars about 300 deep. And so when the gates officially opened to signal the start of Visiting Day, we were still miles away from camp. By the time we finally made it to our daughter’s bunk, she had already taken off and was wandering around like a sad, lost puppy as cheerful reunions took place all around her.
How much do we suck?
Needless to say… we now get there early and run our freaking asses off.
I don’t need to be the first chick at the gate in the morning.
But I will never again be the last.
And if this makes me seem hysterical and over-the-top then I will happily own those titles any day of the week.
Because in the profound words of Icona Pop: I don’t care! I love it!
These are our children we are talking about here.
Our spirit animals, our hearts, our home.
So go ahead and run.
Or don’t run.
To each his own.
But please don’t rain on our parade when you haven’t even been to it yet.
Let’s just get this out of the way right up front.
I’m about to recap a Dance Moms episode.
You heard me.
But see the 10-year-old is away at sleepaway camp for seven weeks and couldn’t possibly survive without her weekly dose of ALDC.
I mean, can you blame her?
How on earth can she fall asleep at night without knowing who was on top of the pyramid? Or who got a solo? Or who got cut from the group number? Or whose mom got drunk at the local bar next door and hit another mom in the face with her Louis Vuitton bag?
In another words… My kid asked me to send her weekly Dance Moms recaps and she’s the boss of me so here we are.
And if that actually makes me a Dance Mom then I will happily own that title.
Or at least I will totally pretend to so let’s move on.
For starters, let me just say this:
When a commercial for a plastic pink Bic razor is the best part of the episode you know there’s a problem.
And that problem has a name.
Candy Freaking Apples.
I may have added the freaking part.
Why does Lifetime think we care about this “Let’s give Cathy her own spinoff” crap?
Newsflash: We don’t.
And now that I’ve typed over 15 lines without actually starting my recap, here goes:
Previously on Dance Moms…
Abby heads off to LaLa Land to shoot Ultimate Dance Competition, Cathy recruits a new bunch of Apples, and yada, yada, yada… Abby sends Jill to spy on her.
Tonight’s ep begins with an Abby teaser. She’s still in LA, and she wants one of her dancers to come join her to appear on the Ultimate Dance Comp grand finale.
Is a grand finale the same thing as a regular finale?
Someone remind to google that later, K?
Anyway, Abby needs a girl who will dance flawlessly on the show, and I bet you a bazillion dollars you can’t figure out who she taps to join her out in Cali.
You’re right. It was Maddie.
But I totally had my fingers crossed when I made that bet so whatev.
Next we cut to the Candy Apples studio back in dull, gray Ohio, where Cathy unveils her pyramid rip-off, The Apple Tree.
Which is like, so totally creative except that it’s not.
I’m not even sure if you care who was on top of this thing, but I took actual notes with paper and pencil during this episode so I’m gonna go ahead and tell you.
On the tippy top of the Capple tree (that’s so what I’m calling it for now on!) is Nick.
Like, duh! I mean, you all follow him on instagram don’t you?
Right below him is Roadkill, followed by Nicaya, Zack and Jalen.
Don’t worry. No one else really knows who all these kids are either.
On the very bottom of the Capple tree is Mari. But don’t feel bad for her because poor little Campbell Soup wasn’t even on the tree. Like, at all. Because Cathi kicked her out of the group dance last week, remember?
In the words of Stephanie Tanner, How rude!
I mean… doesn’t Cathi realize that soup is good food? She could have at least stuck Campbell’s picture on a low hanging branch or something, amiright?
Anyway, if you’re still reading… solos this week go to Jalen and Mari, one of whom Cathi plans to cut from the team. A duet goes to Roadkill and Nick. And the small group dance is a Hip Hop number called “So Chic” that will be choreographed by Anthony. Who has worked with Rihanna! And Beyonce! And Katy Perry! And if all of this is really true, then why on earth is he here slumming it with Cathi and her Capples?
Remind me to google that later too.
So Anthony tries to get the boys to do push ups and they all freak out. Then he tries to discipline Jalen, and Jalen’s dad freaks out. Then he tries to get Roadkill to wear a huge headpiece for her duet and Roadkill freaks out. And then he calls Cathi a joke and Cathi freaks out.
Does anyone else see a pattern here?
Doesn’t matter. Because Jalen messes up his triple pirouette and comes in 9th, Mari forgets part of her dance and comes in 8th, the small group places 2nd, Roadkill’s duet with Nick wins first prize, and we still don’t care because we just want to see the girls from ALDC!
Finally — FINALLY! — we cut back to Abby in LA and we get to watch Maddie perform on the Ultimate Dance Competition Grand Finale.
Did she perform a lyrical number?
Was it flawless?
And am I sitting at my desk right now totally imitating her intensely dramatic facial expressions?
I think you already know the answer to that.
Tune in next week when Christi, Kelly and Patsy return to dispel rumors and discuss the show with Dance Moms bloggers and Superfans.
And BTDubs… I am SO not bummed they didn’t ask me to be on that episode.
You believe me, right?