Letting Go

I noticed I haven't blogged since St. Patrick's Day, and since we're now mid-July, I figured it was time. But I have a good excuse.

I've been preparing to send my son to college.

OK, it's not college. (Not that he isn't brilliant enough to go. But since he's six, he still needs to learn algebra.)

It's summer camp.

A WHOLE.WEEK of summer camp. Gone from me for five days. Me, the maxi-me, separated from my mini-me for five days and nights.

Ok, it does end at 4 pm each day, but he'll be exhausted and going to bed early, so it may as well be overnight.

And if you could peek into my brain, (and clearly you don't want to), you would experience a jumbled mess of emotion and planning, and fear and excitement that would rival any mama sending her baby off to college across the country. Or in another country.

Camp--I mean summer camp--I mean summer day camp--is a lot like that. Granted, it's not across state lines, but we do cross at least two city lines.

And I fear they don't let mommies just drop in to make sure their babies don't need a bandaid or a hug or an extra water bottle or a fingernail-trimming-because-the-dirt-under-the-nail-is-to-embedded-to-removed-by-normal-washing.

And you know, my son has only ever gone to half-day preschool and kindergarten, so we've never done the lunch box thing. And late last night, as I was packing his brand-new Bento lunchbox, I realized I may or may not have ever taught him how to open those pesky containers. You have to get the round corner of the lid lined up with the rounded corner of the container, find the tab, and pull. Really hard. And he's only six. What if he can't get it open and he's too embarrassed to ask for help and so he goes all day without nourishment from the ham and cheese extra mayo on a soft sandwich roll and the extra thin Oreos and squeezable apple sauce and other nutritionally questionable food items I've carefully selected for him?

There's more. Like changing into his swim suit for water activities without mommy inspecting him to make sure it's not backward and everything is tucked into the proper slots. And sunscreen! Will his teenage counselor know how to apply it to his lily-white skin in the "thick and gloppy" way that ensures he isn't crispy by noon? And his new backpack--what if he doesn't recognize it and thinks it got lost?

HE'S ONLY SIX YEARS OLD!  FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND RIGHT, WHAT WAS I THINKING?

Letting go is hard you guys.

And then this morning he says, "Mommy, can I ask you something?"

I braced myself, knowing this could be a moment to calm his fears and prevent psychotherapy when he turns 20 and is dealing with abandonment issues.

"Yes, honey, what is it?"

"What does a duck call quick sand?"

Oh my gosh. He has fears of quicksand! Is their sand at the camp? Will he fall in and be swallowed up?

"Quack sand! Get it? QUACK sand!"

Sigh. Big sighs. Deep breaths. We're going to be OK.