Remind me why I sent the girls to Girl Scout camp this week, dear readers? Not only do we miss out on a week of field trips and the beach, but I get a lovely preview of the beginning of the school year, with all the shaking out of bed, forcing of breakfasts down throats and burst blood vessels while screaming for children to get in the van that entails. I know, I know, enriching experiences (archery!), and gaining independence, blah, blah, blah.
This morning was a test of that last one - for both myself and #1.
The morning routine for camp requires us all to be in the van by eight in the morning, in order for us to pick up the other two girls we car pool with, and make the twenty-five minute drive into the wilds of New Jersey. "Wilds" being far enough for the camp not to be in the parking lot of a mall. This is even earlier than we leave for school, so needless to say we're pretty rushed - especially after six weeks of no schedule at all. We've barely been making it by the skin of our hastily brushed teeth. This morning was no different, and for some reason, as we approached the entrance to the camp, I began to worry I had swapped the girls' sandwiches by mistake. This has happened before at school, and since #2 eats anything, she happily munches away, and by the time #1 has found her in the lunch room half her peanut butter sandwich is gone and she is left with #2's completely inedible (in her opinion) turkey sandwich. So I ask my eldest to check and hear the words that send every mother's heart plummeting to the depths of her chest after a frantic morning of preparing for school/camp, "I forgot my lunch."
"FUUUUUUUCCCKKK!"
That is what I wanted to scream, but didn't. I had planned a morning of grocery shopping and a playdate for Little Man, I really didn't have time to drive an extra hour to retrieve and deliver a forgotten lunch. What does #1 say about this? Does she offer an apology or ask what should she do? Nope. She continues to play the license plate game with her friend and my rage slowly starts to build. "This little shit expects me to make this right. She isn't giving this a thought." This, I'm afraid, is a situation of my own creation, dear readers. A little background...
Beginning in second grade, my mother returned to work. My sister and I were shuttled, during the pre-school and after-school hours, to various relatives and day care centers, until we were old enough to stay home alone, approximately around the time I was in fourth grade, the same age #1 is now. If, in the normal course of events, I forgot my book report, or my lunch, I got points taken off my grade and ate the awful school hot lunch of franks and beans. Nobody was running over to the school to bring me the overdue library book I had forgotten on the kitchen table. I was going to have to face the consequences of my actions, and the pissed off librarian, again. While I appreciate my parents were in a situation they themselves were not big fans of, and I understand the choices they had to make, it's not much consolation when you're the only kid who doesn't have the paper bag for puppet making. Basically, once I left the doors of my house, I felt I was completely on my own.
One could say this early exposure to self-sufficiency is what helped shape me into the responsible child I became - or turned me into a detail-obsessed, control freak. Either way, having to be responsible for my own actions, or lack of action, thereof, taught me quickly that checklists and a quick mental run through before one leaves for the day is pretty helpful. This experience really affected my decision about whether to stay at home and many decisions I make about how I raise my kids. I help them make lists and try to foster as much independence as I can, but I have to confess, when they drop the ball, I'm the one to pick it up - and deliver it to the school's main office before lunch. So often, in fact*, passing #1's open classroom door on the way to the office one day, after having run home to fetch her forgotten gym sneakers, her teacher shouted out, "Go get a cup of coffee and get out of here! She'll live!!!"
Today, dear readers, I had had enough. Arriving at camp, I pulled #1 aside and told her how upset I was that she all but ignored the fact she had no lunch, leading me to believe she assumed I would take care of it in a snap. I informed her of my grocery and play date plans and asked her how she thought having to drop her lunch fit in. I ended by telling her, "When you mess up, and it creates more work for me, you need to apologize. I'm not your slave, I'm your mother." At which point, my sensitive child burst into tears and apologized, making me want to rip the skin off my own body with the guilt. But, even though it was hard, I'm glad I said it. I will not become one of the disturbingly increasing number of parents who do things such as type their kid's hand-written paper because he didn't leave enough time, or blames the boss for firing their constantly tardy child from their summer job at Dairy Queen. And if and when I choose to catch her when she falls, she'd better realize it and at what cost. I can not produce daughters who expect to serve their families completely with no thought for themselves, or a son who expects to be waited on hand and foot! (Such manic projections, tend to be made before nine in the morning fueled by too much caffeine, but are still valid.)
Informing #1's counselor of the forgotten edibles, I was told the camp could easily provide a lunch for her. Huzzah! Here was my O. Henry moment! My child would learn her lesson in minding her P's and Q's** the same way her mother did, with an overly salty tray of artificial meat! Then of course, she came home and told me lunch was a make-your-own peanut butter and jelly on a white roll (we only eat wheat bread), and apple (which she likes and normally gets in her lunch) and four Oreos (aforementioned apple is the dessert). "Can I get camp lunch every day?"
Sure, if you remember to bring in the form.
*I'd like to defend my eldest child by admitting that roughly 40% of the time, it is my own forgetfulness that requires I run the t-shirt for tie-dying over before Art. Nothing sucks worse than not being prepared and it's your mother's fault.
** Or her six P's according to my father in-law, "Proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance".
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