In spite of the fact that winter has not quite arrived, we’re already expected to think about summer camp of 2010. There are emails, phone calls, brochures, and meetings. Representatives of Herzl Camp show up at my daughter’s day school, hoping to drum up some enthusiasm; My friend tells me I should go.
I don’t want to; I have the distinct impression my daughter has no interest, and I’m not so sure I want her at camp, all the way in Minnesota, without me. My friend is so enthusiastic, I give in; I’ll go to the meeting, I promise, just in case Isabella wants to change her mind.
Why do I give in? Oh, right; because there is the distinct possibility that I’m overly prejudiced against super-American things like summer camp, and maybe I’m wrong and Isabella does want to go but is afraid to tell me. It’s expensive, and she knows that, so it’s entirely possible her disinterest is just an act.
At 3:30 pm, I arrive at the school; Isabella comes barging out the door, a big smile on her face at the thought of going home. The smile quickly disappears when I gesture at her to go back inside. “We’re going to listen to the people from summer camp,” I tell her, and she gives me a suspicious look. “My backpack is really heavy,” she says, “I can’t carry it all the way to the library.” (That’s code for “I don’t want to”, but I ignore it and shuttle her towards the back of the school.)
When we arrive at the library, there are other, more enthusiastic kids. One of my daughter’s friends talks to her about how cool camp is, they can share a cabin, she’s going to love it, it’s the best ever, etcetera, etcetera. My daughter gives her friend a faint smile. I know that smile, it means: “Yeah, right. I don’t believe you, and anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I. Am. Not. Going.”
We watch the video, and by the time it’s done, I am ready to travel back in time and send myself. It looks fantastic. Cabins, a lake, kayaking, dancing, singing, making friends; what’s not to like? But Isabella glares at me. She is ready to burst out in tears at the mere thought of having to spend an entire week away from her dad and me. By the time we get home, she cries for real. How could I be so cruel as to suggest such punishment? What on earth did she do to deserve this?
By contrast, my friend’s daughter argues about the one week; she wants to go for two. We hurt our brains trying to understand these wildly different reactions; I continue to tell myself I made the right decision, even after my daughter develops a true Diva-headache and takes a three-hour nap to recover. After all, it needs to be her call, and this way, she at least knows what she’s turning down. Drama be damned.
Also, I now know that I should trust my own instincts; although her reaction was a bit more melodramatic than I expected, I know my child, and was right to think she didn’t want to go in the first place. So why do I still feel so bad?
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