And I'm talking about me.
I have not been dealing well with my son's participation in camp. It has been too much for my poor little heart. Mind you, he is only there for 4 hours and the "camp" is 7 minutes from my house. But, still...anxiety. My friends and sister, who reached out to me yesterday, kept on asking me the same question: what are you so worried about?
No, seriously. So much worries me. I actually don't really understand the concept of camp. Despite having worked in one the summer before I left for college and having several friends attend as children, I don't get it. My sister and I never experienced camp. We were shipped off to the motherland (Puerto Rico), picking mangoes, swimming in El Dorado beach, watching cheesy telenovelas with my grandmother. THAT was a summer experience to me. Camp? That's a dirty four letter word in my culture....
All morning, I had visions of this:
Yes, Karate Kid. I envisioned my son as a 4-year-old Ralph Macchio being bullied by the big ol' blonde preppy....and then, in my full blown panic attack mode, I saw my son learning wax on, wax off by the slide in order to combat the bully. This whole scene played out in my mind several times over, causing the avalanche of tears. Wax on, wax off, people!
Of course, he loved camp and was eager to return. Ugh. I was kind of hoping he would hate it and beg me to stay home. Today is the 2nd day and I am only slightly better. After dropping him off, I decided to stop by CVS and buy a crapload of sh!t to distract me:
|Those slim jims are definitely not mine. No, ma'am, never that.|