He's attained the ranks of the "big kids," going off . . . all by yourself . . . for a whole week.
The camp is lovely . . . small, intimate, woodsy, friendly, aglow with the enthusiasm of camp counselors with the vitality and energy of youth.
There's tedious waiting at the rustic lodge, waiting to register . . . eager 10 year-old feet itching to explore, run, roam.
Youngest Son finds his bunk . . . his home for the week. The cabin room is vibrating, pulsing with 13 junior-boy-age wildness . . . tumbling, pillow-fighting, arm wrestling. The counselor looks unfazed and smiles at them indulgently. Bless your heart, you saint! The counselor is relying on his rules posted above his bed: "#1 - Stay out of counselor's stuff! #2 - Stay off counselor's bed." Mmm-hmm.
The boys' cabin area is as lovely, woodsy and rustic as the lodge. The camp's lake shimmers and laps its shore off the back porch. I would like to live here . . . without the 100+ junior-age boys.
It's time to go, to leave Youngest Son to his adventurous week.
I have the urge to ply him with questions and reminders. Don't forget to put the cortisone on your poison ivy once a day. How are you ever going to sleep without your stuffed penguin? Remember that your sunscreen and bug spray are in the outer right-hand pocket of your duffel bag. I refrain.
Goodbye, Youngest Son. Spread your wings, My Dear. Enjoy this next step on your inevitable march toward independence. We'll be waiting for you eagerly at the end of the week.