Summer Camp Day Three

I’m waiting for Jane to wake up, in fact I may wake her shortly, and we need to pack her for Outward Bound. 

She leaves tomorrow and I think I might just roll over and die. It’s like someone is sitting on my chest as I click to do the web check in for her flight. Her flight. Alone, without us. Without even her brother.

I’m much more worried about her flight than I am about the canoeing or the rock climbing. Maybe I’m worried about the wrong things, and that worries me.

I went to sleep last night without tucking in my son and didn’t sleep soundly, tomorrow night we’ll go to sleep without talking to either child or tucking them in.

If summer camp convinces them that they no longer need tucking in someone’s going to get hurt and it’s not going to be me.

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  1. I didn’t realize there was a 30-minute rule with driving while vlogging! I’m going to try out that defense when the cops pull me over in Chicago. ;)

    1. As much as I love Lenore, she can kiss my fat ass on this one. I’ve already been to the camp with a “emergency” and I was not arrested for trespass… although it might have been threatened.

  2. Here is what I suggest while the kids are away.  Hotel Room.  Hot man (can be your husband, but ask him to trim his bush.  They never trim their bushes.  They just expect us to hack our way through the foliage while we’re getting our labias ripped off at Pink Cheeks).  Kettle one.  Body trappings that make you happy.  (i.e. bustiers, thigh-high stockings, fly-fishing waders, what have you).  Good music (I realize this is subjective, just avoid Robin Thicke singing in a fey contralto, I think he’s a closet castrati and that just isn’t the vibe you want).  And finally, a Serbian accent.  It’s no secret L.A.’s riddled with six-foot tall Serbian Amazons who cruise the lounge at the Peninsula Club looking for Bruce Willis; they’re sexy, sad and dangerous.  When said hot man (delicately pruned) arrives at your swank hotel room (or Motel 6 due to the recession), you greet him in your native Serbian tongue which will lend you an air of mystery and incomprehensibility.  With a bullwhip and your waders, intimidate him to the bed where you’ll force him to drink the Kettle One out of your belly button while Tom Jones croons “That Old Black Magic” and you accost him with your pocket rocket.  I think you can take it from here. 

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