A Letter to the Girl Returning from Sleepaway Camp

Dear Daughter,

I’d like to congratulate you on your recent achievement.  You and your Junior Girl Scout troop completed a weekend away from home, staying two nights at a mountain camp three hours away.  All 14 of you packed up your pink sleeping bags, loaded your backpacks up with Skittles, SillyBandz and stuffed pandas, and you headed up to the high timber, away from your mother and me.

Since you’re nine, I think we can agree that this is impressive.

Sure, you were reticent the week prior to the getaway.  You approached your mother and me with what I’ll call “certainty,” explaining to us that you did not wish to make the trip.  It was far, you explained.  And away.  And two whole nights.  Not just one, like a regular sleepover at a friend’s house.

Your mother and I explained to you that the trip would be fun.  Fun? you said incredulously.  You did not agree.  I know this because of your dextrous, well-placed air quotes around the word.  (Kudos to you, future sarcastic pundit.  And kudos again.)

The trip would not be “fun,” you said.  You continued making your case for staying home with what I’ll call “tenacity.”  (Between you and me, your mother used the word “whiny.”  She’s so mean to you.  I don’t know how you put up with it.)

You said that perhaps such a journey might be fun, if your mother or myself were to accompany you on the trip.

“But Sweetheart,” I said, “we are not Girl Scouts, you see.” 

You explained to us that several other parents were going on the trip.  Therefore, we could too.  Chaperones, we explained.  They are chaperones, and we are not.

“So just be a Sharpertone,” you said plaintively.  I will concede this was where I too detected the slightest hint of whininess, which I attributed to a justifiable Fear of the Unknown.

You made your case for staying home admirably.  I know you were dismayed when your mother and I rejected your proposal.  (You should know that we stuck by our decision partially because we thought the trip would be a valuable experience for you, one that would result in wonderful memories of friends, campfires, and sing-alongs, and partially because we ourselves were looking forward to some Grown-Up Snuggle Time.)

I’ll be frank, Daughter.  I was worried about you.  I feared you would be homesick.  I feared you would arrive at the camp, realize that you’d have to fend for yourself in the wilderness (where there are often bears and maniacs) without your Daddy to protect you.  I worried you would have nightmares about being lost or eaten.  I imagined you moaning softly for your parents, assuming we’d packed the car and left town as soon as you were gone.  You’d wonder why you’d been abandoned, left to make your way in the world as a plucky orphan.  You, with no real pickpocket skills or the ability to speak in a cockney accent.

After your mother took you to the drop-off site on Friday and returned home, I asked how the goodbyes went.  She told me you put on a brave face, but I knew: at that moment, you were a tiny child on an oversized bus seat, hugging your backpack, chin quivering as you tried to be a brave little soldier.  So small.  So vulnerable.  So tasty a morsel for any bear that might be craving a bedtime snack.

We waited all weekend to receive a call from your Troop Leader, Miss CeCe.  That was the system.  If any child became too inconsolably homesick, Miss CeCe would call the parents, who would leap into the family Four Runner, speed up to the mountains, retrieve their child, and then find a good therapist who would spend the next several years trying to undo the emotional damage that abandonment can wreak.

I slept both nights fully clothed, with my shoes on, and the car keys on my bedside table,  I assure you.  Waiting for the phone to ring

But our phone was silent.

Your mother and I were confused.  Relieved, of course.  And happy.  But confused. 

I am happy to report that this did not hamper Grown-Up Snuggle Time.

Sunday arrived.  You and your troop journeyed back down the mountain.  Your mother picked you up at Miss CeCe’s house and brought you back home, where I was waiting.

You smelled like pine trees and campfire smoke. 

I wrapped you in my arms, and asked you how the weekend was.  Was it frightening?  I know it gets extra dark up in the mountains.  Were you worried?  Because if you had needed us, you know we would’ve been--

“It was awesome!” you said.  “We hiked and we made crafts and I got five friendship bracelets and Hayley fell in the lake we stayed up late and I ate five marshmallows and and and I learned five new songs do you want to hear the first one it goes On top of spagheeeeettttiiiiii, all covered with cheeeeeeeeese…..”

Apparently, you had a perfectly wonderful time, and did not fear being away from your parents.  Miss CeCe never even considered picking up the phone to call us.  You slept well, and you played games, and experienced no homesickness whatsoever.  The weekend was a success.  You seem to be growing into an independent, confident girl who is capable of meeting challenges, making friends, and solving problems without assistance or nurturing from your parents.

You wretched, ungrateful child.

 

Sincerely,

Your Father