Posts tagged with camp:
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 when the post first showed up on my newsfeed, I clicked on the link totally prepared to have one of those damnwhydidn’tIthinktowritethisfirst moments.
Only it never came.
I mean, the writing is witty and the piece is funny and — let’s be honest here — parts of it are undeniably true.
Because The Running is totally a thing.
Like, TOTALLY totally.
It sounds awful.
But until you’ve been there, until you’ve actually ran a mile in 3-inch wedges carrying a four-foot Dylan’s Candy Bar tower while simultaneously trying to keep your six-year-old from getting trampled, you really don’t know.
You think you know… but you actually 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.
Especially when you’ve never even been to it.
You’ve made it through the first week of sleep away camp!
I guess we should have printed you out a certificate or something.
Because as much as we hate to admit it, you’ve kinda been a good sport.
I mean, you just spent over ten grand to send your kid out into the pseudo-wilderness for seven weeks when you could have used the coin to party like P. Diddy in Parrot Cay instead.
But how can you possibly expect your kids to actually succeed at life one day if they’ve never lived 10 for 2 and therefore can’t properly short sheet a bed? Or swamp a canoe? Or build a fire that can actually burn through rope?
Don’t all fires do that?
And you know what the best part is?
There are still six weeks left until the kids come home!
Can you say par-TAY?
I’m sure you can but you may want to hold on there for a minute frat boy.
Because even though we said that thing about you being a good sport, we meant to add under our breath that you’ve been far from perfect. Because we’re passive-aggressive just like our mothers that’s why. And while we’ve mostly got this camp shiz under control, we could use a little backup from time to time.
I mean, it’s hard to write all these letters and emails and stalk the camp website while simultaneously trying to maintain our stick-straight manes and unlined faces and toned, hairless bods. Plus we’ve got our raging pinkberry addiction to deal with and our teacup Shih Tzu to pretend to still love and you know we have that “hernia” procedure coming up next week.
Which is why we figured now would be a good time to establish some hard rules.
And no, we don’t mean that in a slutty Fifty Shades kind of way.
Sorry not sorry.
So onto The Rules, boys!
Here they are, in no particular order.
You know, except for the one we chose to type them in.
Rule #1: Don’t bogart the pictures. OMG we are SO SICK of talking about the pictures! I mean, we barely even look at the pictures anymore! They are like, sooo four days ago! Or at least that’s what we go around telling everyone. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t still stalking the camp website. We know this. And you know this. But if you tell anyone else, we will for real have to kill you.
Also? Please don’t steal the iPad when we leave the room and start looking at the pictures before we do. That’s, like, so uncool. Especially when you start making announcements like “None of him again, today!” or “Looks like they went bowling!” This is totally unacceptable behavior on par with ruining The Sixth Sense by telling everyone that Bruce Willis was dead the whole time.
You know what else is unacceptable? Asking us to just put down the iPad and come have sex. Do not attempt this. Like, ever. Like, EVER, ever! No. Freaking. Exceptions. Because if we’re still holding the iPad, it means the pictures haven’t finished uploading.
And P to the S: The no bogarting rule also applies to camp phone calls — which are for us, not you — and to rushing the mailbox every day to check for letters. Getting the mail is, like, totally the highlight of our day. So just back the fuck away from the box, ok?
Rule #2: Just keep pouring. Ok. So we’re assuming you know by now what our favorite drink is. And if you don’t, you might as well just stop reading and go make sure the pre-nup is intact. Or maybe hit the wine store — it opens at 9 am, you know! — and buy us a few bottles of sauv blanc or chard.
And by bottles we mean cases.
What? You don’t think we’ve been drinking too much this past week, do you? This is a trick question so you may want to think about it for a minute before you answer. “Drinking? I didn’t notice any drinking,” is what you should say, even as you follow us around the house making sure our goblet never dips below the glass-half-empty level.
Do not even THINK about giving us a sideways glance or tossing off a snarky “Drink, much?” as we down our fifth glass of the night. Or when we spill our sixth. Or when we pass out with our seventh resting on our nightstand next to the ipad. Just quietly collect the glasses when you wake up in the morning, and then rinse them out and place them in the dishwasher like the whole thing never even happened.
Follow these instructions and no one gets hurt, capiche?
Rule #3: Do not call us crazy. Because we are not crazy. Not even a little. But you know what IS crazy? Sending your kids away to camp for seven weeks. But it’s also freaking awesome. And yes we know we just totally contradicted ourselves. You wanna make something of it? Didn’t think so. See, we LOVE our freedom. But we MISS our mini-me’s. It’s like having the worst case of PMS on the very best hair day. Or like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife.
If none of this is making any sense it’s because we’re completely batshit. Even though we just totally said that we weren’t. But don’t even THINK about mentioning it to us. Not even when it’s 8:46 on a week night and we suddenly realize we forgot to buy a case of Silly String for Visiting Day and omigod the store is closing in like fourteen minutes so you better go out get it for us right now.
Just pretend it’s like, Y2K or whatever and you’re still totally obsessed with us. In which case you will not feel the need to sigh loudly or roll your eyes dramatically or ask us why the fuck we even need Silly String. You will simply hop in your car and just go freaking get it. Oh and could you stop and pick us up the new issue of Us Weekly while you’re at it? We want to find out who the best Karadashian is this week, even though we all know it’s always Kourtney because even when she’s preggers she’s totally the skinniest one.
And with that being said, those are the fucking rules.
Ignore them at your own risk.
But don’t come crying to us when someone goes all Brandi Glanville on your ass and slashes the tires on your Jeep.
And by someone, we mean us.