My eleven year old daughter is leaving today for a week at camp. Oh, sorry. My eleven-and-a-half year old daughter, because if you don’t add the ‘half’ then you will get an eye roll. And, sometimes, a hair flip.
I went to this same camp in the sixth grade and had so much fun that, as the school bus pulled away from the cabins on the last day, I looked out the back window and cried as the lyrics to Dan Fogelberg’s “Longer” danced in my head. The whole scene was like a bad, after-school special.
I know my daughter is going to have a great time. She is going to make new friends, have experiences she will remember forever and, so help me, none of those experiences had better include boys or someone is going to get hurt.
But, knowing she is going to have a fabulous week doesn’t mean I’m going to miss her any less. She has been to overnight camp before, but never for a week. Sure, there will be less arguing and we won’t run out of milk as quickly, but not kissing her forehead before she goes to bed each night is kind of going to make my heart hurt.
Of course, I knew she would feel the same way. Which was almost evident when I asked, “Are you going to miss us?”
And she replied, “Nope.”