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Three years ago, my 10-year-old son, Patrick, dutifully, but not happily, attended a YMCA camp. Although he was voted Most Honest and Best Sportsman, he hated every minute of every day. He had a litany of complaints: The food was lousy. There were too many boys in the bunkroom. The other boys didn’t know how to swim as well as he did. They didn’t play Frisbee well either. He couldn’t fall asleep; it wasn’t his own, familiar bed. He was too embarrassed to bring his favorite stuffed animal, the one that comforted him as he drifted off to sleep. There was also the dreaded sunscreen Patrick swore he applied each morning. A lie that did not bode well for a child so fair.
The following summer Patrick dug in his heels. “No! You are not making me go to camp. I HATE camp,” he shouted at me. And so he stayed home in a darkened house, refusing to step outside because it was too hot or too sunny or both. I warned him that his friends would all be busy and otherwise occupied. They had made their summer plans a long time ago. So, Patrick's lazy days of summer stretched out into what felt to him like endless months of boredom.
His fears ate away at him as he spent a lot of time alone. He slept less than usual. He could not think of a single thing to do. He relied on playing video games, which often escalated his irritability. Patrick rubbed his mouth excessively when he faced a difficult video “enemy.” Sores began to form from all the rubbing so he no longer enjoyed some of his favorite foods. Spaghetti with tomato sauce or orange juice became pleasures he would forego because his mouth hurt so badly.
More than once I suggested a field trip to the park, to the local swimming hole, out for ice cream. He rejected them all.
“Take him into the city for a change of pace,” a friend suggested, one who didn’t know us very well. Patrick avoided the city whenever possible. The noise, the smells, the crowds. A Trip to the zoo? What? Was she crazy?
So when his friend Jon called this year to see if Patrick was interested in attending Camp Foster, a soccer camp upstate, I hesitated. On the one hand, Patrick hated even the concept of an overnight camp. On the other hand, I did not want my son at home, under foot all summer. Okay, I admit it. I craved time without him. For eleven years, my every waking moment seemed to be consumed with Patrick’s doctor appointments and therapy sessions and dealing with his issues in general.
At the thought of Patrick attending camp, I felt both a sense of relief, and a sense of guilt, because I felt relief. Bad Mommy Moment! Honestly, I can’t wait for my son to pack his bags and go. He’ll enjoy his favorite activity – soccer. But, will he sleep? Will he learn to deal with his anxieties? But, hate me anyway for sending him away? Truthfully, that’s exactly what I was doing – sending him away.
Finally, the day came. Jon’s mom, Tracy, and I drove the boys to camp. We were giddy with anticipation of our peaceful week ahead. After five hours in the car, we arrived at camp – an older military complex with huge open fields spectacularly situated near the water and perfect for summer soccer. We were thrilled. And the boys cheered up – briefly.
For the first half hour, while Tracy and I checked the boys in, they played happily with soccer ball, passing it back and forth, dribbling, then taking shots on goal. We talked cheerfully, feeling that our escape was near at hand. No guilt – until we walked into the dormitory. Thirty campers on a floor – in one big room! Neither boy would like this situation alone, but since they had each other, they would be fine. That's what we told ourselves.
“Goodbye. See you next week,” we said cheerfully, as we waved goodbye.
By week’s end, Tracy had read two novels, painted three rooms in her house, finished her college course work, and dined with several friends. I reacquainted myself with my husband and older son, completed several started-but-never-finished home projects, read two books, and took a few walks with friends.
“How do you think the boys fared?” Tracy asked me as we drove back to Camp Foster to pick them up. “I’m sure they had a blast,” I lied. “The weather was perfect,” Tracy added.
When we arrived at camp, we knew immediately that the boys did not have a good time. In fact, the circle under both boys’ eyes announced to anyone paying attention: these boys rarely slept over the last week. Patrick looked as if he had lost some weight; not a good sign given his already slight frame. Patrick was sunburned because he refused to put on the sunscreen that I packed knowing full well that he would never use it. Nope. No happy campers here.
Apparently the food was lousy. There were no vegetarian options, which meant that my vegetarian son Patrick ate cereal at almost every meal. On one occasion, he ate a hot dog, which instantly made him sick.
He and Jon spent little time together during the day because they were on separate teams. But at night they bonded over their fears! They fed off each other's anxieties and talked into the night about the many horrible possibilities that could occur and probably would occur if they closed their eyes. They simply avoided what they feared by never sleeping.
On the long drive home, both boys fell asleep. Their tired, dirty faces tugged at my heart. I felt sad that they had had such a terrible time.
“Will you send him away next year?” Tracy whispered.
I paused before replying, “You betcha.”
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