Helen Martin’s Blog

I can’t believe I’m sending my kids to summer camp. Willingly. Not even reluctantly. I’m barely even “worried.” Until this year I’ve never even imagined having a glimmer of a desire for them to go. But somehow last week I found myself selling the idea to my beloved. He and I have since given the necessary nudge to Kenny the Cautious. (Anna the Adventurous only needed permission.)

Those aren’t their nicknames or anything, but definite traits that have been clearly present in each of them since shortly after birth. Kenny would crawl to not less than two feet from the edge of anything, stop, assess the situation and then make the decision of whether or not proceed. Anna would fly over the edge without pausing, and she’d barely turn around afterwards to see what she just fell off of.

She’s very excited to go. She’s only eight and if the counsellor wasn’t a friend of ours, she might not be going. And if Anna wasn’t going, I don’t think I would have wanted Kenny to go. He will need just that much of the familiar in Iowa with him, even though their activities will be separated by their age groups.

As it is, though, I am freakishly comfortable with the plan. I get a little teary when I remember that I’ve never gone more than a day without seeing Kenny in his whole life. What is wrong with me? How can I be OK with this? Maybe I’m more than just in love with my kids. Maybe I actually want what’s best for them, too.

Anything’s possible.