It was only yesterday — I swear, only yesterday — that I sent my little boy off to stay in the woods. It wasn’t that I was sending him off with wolves or anything. Far from it. My 5 year old would be spending most of his summer days at Camp Harrington, where he’d swim, swing over a peanut butter pit and learn camp songs.
He never did get eaten by bears or neglected by counselors or struck by lightning. He’d hop off the camp bus daily, mosqito-bitten and filthy — my basic standard for a kid having a good time in the summer. He had tales of frogs and friends, excuses for not learning to.swim, admiring stories about the cool older kids who helped him through his day.
Last week was something new: we visited camp when there were still snow drifts beneath the trees. And my child, the kid who was too little for camp, had his first job interview. He’s now one of those cool older kids — he turns 13 this summer, and he’s officially a counselor in training.
Life gets a little blurry at times. The kid who didn’t want to swim? Well, he still doesn’t want to go in the water.