This morning I dropped my son off at camp and got surprisingly weepy.
It was just day camp.
He is only 4, turning 5 by the end of the week.
But camp is huge.
Maybe even bigger than kindergarten.
I packed his lunch last night.
Chips and apples and a lunchable. And plenty of fluids.
And 2 twizzlers. One to eat and one to share with a new friend.
And he asked to see his lunch at least a half dozen times on the way there.
Specifically the twizzlers.
Both of them.
And I dropped him off and before I knew it he was lost in the crowd.
And I was trying to find my way to the front of the carpool line so I could get back to school to check out.
And I fought tears.
For my own summers.
And my own lunches.
Always bbq down by the river.
Or up the hill in the cafeteria.
Or breakfasts in the basement at my own summer camp.
And these summers shaped me and made me and are some of my fondest memories.
And my son is beginning to make his own.
Without me.
And it begins with
picnics under the trees.
Sweaty in bathing suits
Sharing chips and crusts with the ants.
And twizzlers with a new friend.
And I envy him.
And cry a little as I head back to work.
Comments