I admit it.
Now that my older kids are starting to leave my home, I sometimes hold on to my younger ones too tightly. In fact, when I receive information about registering them for summer camps, part of me wants to ignore it all and just move through the summer beside them like a family wolf pack.
Then I remember a gift I received in the summer of 1986.
That was the summer my coolest cousin from the “big city” of Birmingham invited her small-town cousin from Tuscaloosa (me) to join her at a weeklong, sleep-away camp. Because I wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to cool myself up a notch, I said yes – without considering how a 12-year-old who had never been away from home for more than 24 hours might handle it. By the end of the first day, though, I knew exactly how I’d handle it: with camper’s remorse.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like camp itself. I had a counselor who promised to show me how to curl my hair, the activities suited my high energy, the other campers seemed cool and friendly, and there was a cute boy a few cabins away I could see myself marrying.
Still, as I lay in my bed that first night, the fear of being away from my parents and facing a new experience alone overtook me. It must have triggered my flight instinct because all I could think about were ways to fly away without my own transportation. That’s when my performance started.
First, I let out a sneeze. Then a cough. Then another sneeze. The last one was a doozy and got my counselor’s attention. By the time she made her way to my bedside and put her flashlight in my face, I had even rubbed my eyes raw.
“You OK?” she asked.
“I can hardly breathe.” I sneezed again. “Allergies, I think. Could I call my parents to come get me?” I could almost taste the Tuscaloosa air.
To my disappointment, she didn’t budge. In fact, she turned out to be one of those problem-solving types because all she said was, “Oh, that’s not necessary. We’ll just get everyone to clean the cabin better in the morning. You’ll be fine. In the meantime, I’ll get you some Benadryl.”
Everyone clean the cabin! I’ll be fine! Benadryl! I knew I was checkmated – and now my cabin mates were going to hate me for inflicting unnecessary cleaning on them. All I could do was take my medicine and fall into a (deep) guilt-ridden slumber.
But by morning – like magic – the fear of the unknown and the instinct to fly away lost its power. In fact, as I watched my entire cabin enthusiastically get ready for the day, make jokes and give the cabin an extra sweep and dusting without complaint (as only the coolest kids can), I didn’t even know what I’d been afraid of:
• Of having a counselor who wanted me to stay?
• Of making friends with some pretty exceptional kids?
• Of gaining a sense of myself apart from my parents?
• Of making some headway with that cute boy after all?
That’s when I received the gift.
It was my first palpable dose of maturity, of being fully aware I had moved somewhere new, somewhere a little stronger, inside myself. It was also a gift I probably wouldn’t have received that summer if I had stayed close to home.
So now when I start to hold my kids too close, I at least try and loosen my grip a little – and trust they will receive it too.
