Perfect Camp Trunks
When my eldest daughter was eight years old, I did what every good Jewish mother does, and began researching sleepaway camps. I had attended an all girls camp and with three daughters there was no need to change the tradition. I only entertained all girls, uniform camps, limiting the search quite a bit. As a preppy private school girl from New Jersey, I never arrived at camp with the “right” clothes. I hadn’t even heard of Bennaton or David’s cookies before I arrived at camp. I was a country bumpkin compared to the oh so cool camp girls.
When the camp packing list arrived prior to her first summer, I was consumed. In my mind, every towel, sock and ponytail holder had to be brand new, freshly washed, and stored in a clearly labeled zip lock bag. I made sure she had every hot new trend packed in those trunks which resembled body bags. My daughter would be prepared, organized and want for nothing in my absence, even if the preparation overtook my life for two months, I would NOT be the delinquent mom. I was striving for mom of the century when it came to packing camp trunks.
Today, I am packing trunks for the twelfth year.Yes, you read that correctly, twelve years. The excitement and pressure I felt years ago leading up to the first summer at camp is long gone. There are no labeled ziplock bags, no freshly washed and perfectly folded T-shirts, no hot new toys or games. The weeks of preparation have been replaced with, “Three days? That’s plenty of time.” Perhaps it’s experience and knowledge, or a learning curve, but the magic of summer camp has run its course and come August, it will be a memory from our past.
When I’m experiencing various firsts with my children, I am all in. The perfectionist in me appears and I need to achieve excellence. I want my girls to feel cared for, and I have often convinced myself that my ability to pack a trunk or throw a killer birthday party was a reflection on my mothering abilities. Continuing with my pursuit for mommy perfectionism, I wrote letters daily to each one of my daughters. That’s about one hundred and twenty-six letters a summer. I still haven’t received any awards for mother of the year, not even one nomination!
As I prepare for the final two trunks to depart in less than twenty-four hours, we are still packing and buying essentials. I’m not sweating, or battling overnight anxiety, and there isn’t a single ziplock bag in sight. I hope we remembered underwear and a toothbrush, but beyond that, my third baby girl (btw, she’s sixteen) will be just fine.