Taking my daughter to camp on Father’s Day. Or letting go with Stickum on your palm.
Yesterday we left our daughter at camp for two weeks.
Between the drive there, getting her settled, childless Father’s Day dinner for hubby at some Outback off the interstate after dropping her off, it was 45 minutes shy of a twelve hour adventure.
It was a beautiful spot.
Swimming in a lake. Cabins filled with bunk beds and windows wide open, cooled only by breeze of a mid-June day. Tennis, horse-back riding, archery — all standard camp fun, except my little camper had never been to this camp before and many of these girls had been going there for years.
So I worried.
I worried the entire day Saturday double-checking the list, making sure all was packed.
I knew this would be way out of her comfort zone. Way out of any 12 year old’s comfort zone. And knowing what she would experience that first day or so (feeling like the new kid), put me way out of my comfort zone. And with the unplugged policy for campers, she wouldn’t be able to text or call home with the news of how miserable she was that first night.
On the drive up there, I was thinking how difficult it is to be a parent. Knowing something is going to be fabulous for your child, but knowing it is going to be hard too.
I thought some about my dad — how he wanted to shelter me from anything that pushed me out of my comfort zone. How most of my adult life has been pushing those boundaries that I never dared as a child.
My daughter will have an awesome time. Heck, I was ready to stay for two weeks as a camper but that would mean that my daughter would never have spoken to me again.
I love her. I loved my dad.
We both did and are doing the best we could with what we were given to raise our daughters.
The job never seems to get any easier — or maybe it never gets any easier to let go.
