June 11, 2006

The Dirtiest Camper

Keeping in touch with campers is much easier than it was when we were kids. No more waiting for a handwritten letter– the camp has a website that allows you to log on everyday and see pictures of your child participating in various activities. While your child must rely on snail mail to communicate with you, parents can email their kids daily. The messages are printed off and handed out along with regular mail at rest time.

Looking at the pictures is addictive. Sure, it’s reassuring to see that your child is having fun and to know what activities he is doing, but it’s even more entertaining to check out the other kids and see if you can tell where they’re from and who’s hanging out with who.

When we dropped Drew off at camp, I sniffled a little as we drove away. Two hours later, when we stopped for gas and I reached in the back of my car to get some aspirin, I discovered that Drew’s toiletries had not made it into his trunk. He was stuck in the wilderness with no shampoo, and worst of all, no toothbrush or toothpaste.

As soon as I got home I emailed him:

Dear Drew:

I guess you’ve figured out by now that we forgot to put your toothbrush in your trunk. Please do not experiment to see if you can grow green fuzzy mold on your teeth. You can buy a toothbrush at the camp store. That will make me happy. We are home and it is raining and I am making your brothers clean out their closets so you are not missing a thing here. Love you lots,
Mom

After we got home, there were already pictures up on the camp website. Drew was easy to spot. As I had feared, he was one of the smallest boys there, and his white-blonde hair was almost blinding. He was wearing his favorite crimson shirt as he held a big tarantula.

The second day the boys went on a campout. Drew was still wearing his crimson shirt. I saw him sitting by a campfire, chowing down on a hot dog, and hiking with his backpack. I fumed. Many of the kids resembled one another, with blondish-brown hair and big front teeth, but Drew has a unique look. By my count he’d gone 48 hours in the same shirt. I wondered if the other mothers perusing the website were noticing. I knew they were.

I wrote Drew again:

Dear Drew:

Boy, it looks like you have been very busy. That tarantula you were holding looked VERY scary. PLEASE do not pack it in your suitcase and bring it home. That would scare the pants off me!! The campout looked fun also. Did you get to eat s’mores after dinner?

I noticed you’ve been wearing your favorite shirt a LOT. It is probably starting to smell, so why don’t you put it in your laundry bag and put on a clean shirt? We packed your favorite camouflage shirt. I bet your cabin mates would like to see it. I hope you bought a new toothbrush, too.

Today I made your brothers pull weeds until they cried, so you’re not missing anything.

Love, Mom

The third day he rode horses. Actually, it looked like he was trying to make out with the horse. I wasn’t really paying attention because all I could see was that he was wearing the damn shirt again. Who cared if the counselors could do CPR– weren’t they trained to make sure their charges exercised basic hygiene? If he wasn’t changing his shirt, I hated to think about his underwear.

On day four Drew learned to kayak in the morning. I brightened when I saw that picture, as it meant that at least his skin was coming in contact with water, and the crimson shirt was no longer touching his body. On the next page of photos, however, I saw that later in the day Drew had put on his clothes and taken up archery.

I sighed. The other mothers were going to think that I was the worst mom ever.

On the fifth day the website had a closeup of Drew kneeling on a portrait he had drawn, smiling broadly up at the camera. Again, the crimson shirt. Maybe the camp had lost his belongings.

I inspected the picture closely. His teeth were taking on a definite yellowish tinge. I didn’t think he was brushing his teeth properly, if at all.

At that point I resigned myself to the fact that I was raising a boy who, left to his own devices, tended to wallow in filth. I would be picking him up in twelve hours, and I’d start training him to stay clean immediately.

When we got to camp, Drew was waiting for me, wearing his camouflage shirt. I was excited to see him, and so thrilled to see his new wardrobe that I nearly smothered him with kisses before I realized that there were a lot of little boys standing around and my behavior was way uncool.

As I put him down, a woman walked by with her chunky camper. “I recognize that little guy,” she said, pointing to Drew. “It’s the boy in the red shirt!”

She looked at me. “I saw all his pictures on the website,” she said. “He looked like he had an interesting week,” she said. Was that her way of implying that he had a stinky camping experience, I wondered?

Drew gave me a box to hold. “It’s got all my really important things from camp in it,” he said. I peeked in it and saw his archery target, the letters he’d gotten from us, his colored pencils and notebook, several beaded necklaces, and our emails, which were neatly folded. He’d doodled on the back of them.

Eventually we loaded Drew’s things and said goodbye. As we turned onto the highway, I asked him what his favorite part of camp was.

“I really liked riding horses,” he said. “And guess what? I didn’t brush my teeth or change my clothes the whole time I was there. Except this morning my counselor made me wear this shirt.”

“Really?” I commented. “So what did you think when you got my emails telling you to buy a toothbrush and to change your shirt?”

Drew looked confused.

“I didn’t get any emails,” he said. “I didn’t even see a computer.”

“They printed out the messages and handed them to you at rest time,” I told him. “I know you got them. I saw them in your box.” I reached in the box and pulled out the folded notes.

“I didn’t know these were emails,” Drew said. “I thought they were handing out paper for us to draw on.”

So as it turns out, my petite little camper never unfolded the emails we sent, and went through the week blissfully unaware that his mother was freaking out over his filth from three states away.

It’s all for the best, though. When people ask him what he liked best about camp, he says he loved not brushing his teeth.

You know that furry feeling you get on your teeth when you haven’t brushed them in a while? That’s the stuff great camping memories are made of.

June 8, 2006

Notes From North Carolina

Dear Pissed-Off Travelers On I-85 South:

That was me in the white minivan with the “Mom’s Taxi” magnet on the back. I realize I was driving obscenely fast. I understand how terrifying it is when someone races up behind you and almost hits your rear bumper before moving into the left lane to pass. It was not proper highway etiquette at all. I’m sorry.

It’s just that my boys and I were enjoying an intoxicating game of License Plate Bingo on our way home from dropping Finn at camp. As we hit Atlanta, both Porter and I were just one state away from making Bingo.

I don’t blame you at all for honking and making profane hand gestures as I whizzed by. I told the boys that’s how people in other states greet each other on the highway.

The writing on license plates sure is small these days.

An Apologetic Bingo Winner (Thanks To The Semi From Nebraska),

Anne Glamore

++++++++++++++++++++

Dear Asheville Appleby’s Waitress:

It was our last night in your town and I was weary of hanging out with three boys and no adults. When we entered your establishment and each of my boys ordered chicken fingers for the third night in a row, I thought it was going to be a predictable evening. Your wine selection (yet another glass of Kendall-Jackson chardonnay, the wine of choice for family-friendly restaurants everywhere) did nothing to raise my hopes. When “I Saw The Sign” by Ace of Base began playing, I groaned, ordered two glasses instead of one and resigned myself to the situation.

But Desiree, you came through for me. I cannot thank you enough for spotting Finn’s retainer lying on our table, buried under dirty napkins, half-eaten baskets of chicken fingers and a puddle of milk.

I didn’t discover it was missing until we’d returned to our cabin. I made Finn bathe his brothers and wash their hair as penance while I drove back to the restaurant to retrieve the costly orthodontic appliance, which you had carefully packaged in a to-go box. What a sweet touch!

Your visual acumen is particularly noteworthy given that the table was dark brown and the retainer is blue and orange. Have you considered taking up License Plate Bingo? You’d totally rock at it, without putting your passengers’ lives in jeopardy.

A Satisfied Customer Despite The Sucky Music,

Anne Glamore

June 5, 2006

The Tale of the Burning Buttocks

After we picked up Drew from camp, we headed to a mountain cabin right outside Asheville to stay from Sunday to Wednesday, when we would drop Finn off at camp. After the harrowing adventure we endured driving up to camp the first time, I wasn’t going to drive home on Sunday and make the same trek up and back on Wednesday.

The first night I let the boys rent Richie Rich. I was taking them to tour the Biltmore Estate the next day. I couldn’t decide if it was going to be a child-friendly adventure or not. I figured a movie about a rich kid would be an efficient way to get them primed for what would be either a mind-blowing mansion tour or a dull furniture junket clogged with gaggles of little old ladies.

As the movie started, Drew went to do a big job in the bathroom. When he rejoined his brothers on the sofa, they complained loudly about the lingering stench from his rear end.

Always eager to please, Drew returned to the bathroom and wiped his bottom again. For good measure, he sprayed his buttocks with the Pure Citrus air freshener thoughtfully provided in every bathroom and then returned to the couch.

Moments later he began to scream and cry and jump up and down. I came running from my room where I had been reading, oblivious to all of the above activity.

“My butt stings!” he sobbed.

I grabbed him and took him to my bedroom and stripped off his clothes. His fanny was bright red, and he was grabbing it and shaking.

“Did something bite you?” I asked. “Did you get stung?”

He shook his head as tears continued to roll down his face.

I inspected his pale posterior carefully. I couldn’t see any sting or bite marks. The only thing I did notice was the overpowering smell of oranges. It was then that I recalled seeing the air freshener in the bathroom.

“Did you spray bathroom spray on your bottom?” I asked.

He nodded through his tears. “Finn and Porter said I smelled bad and I wanted to sit on the sofa with them to watch the movie,” he explained.

I had a flashback to my own childhood experience with an unusual burning sensation. When I was about five years old, I sat on the floor of the
kitchen with a washcloth and a pepper shaker. My mom wasn’t paying
much attention to me as she fixed herself a gin and tonic and then
started making dinner. I wet the yellow washcloth and sprinkled it
liberally with pepper. Then I scrubbed my whole face, including my
eyes. Soon I was screaming in pain.

As my mom cleaned me up, she kept asking, “Why in the world would you put pepper on your face?” I didn’t have an answer. It seemed like an interesting idea until I experienced the searing pain from hell.

At least Drew had a benevolent reason for his burning butt. I could see how spraying his derriere with air freshener would have seemed like a fabulous idea if his both of his brothers had been complaining about his smell. He had been really enthusiastic about seeing the movie and touring the estate.

The air freshener can said “AVOID CONTACT WITH SKIN” and “IN THE EVENT OF CONTACT THE AREA INVOLVED SHOULD BE THOROUGHLY FLUSHED WITH WATER FOR AT LEAST 10 MINUTES.”

I ran a bath and stuck Drew in it. While he soaked, I got his shampoo (blueberry scented) and washed his hair as well. Soon the stinging subsided and a clean boy smelling like fruit cocktail emerged from the tub.

While he dried off and put on his pajamas, I went into the den and told Finn and Porter how much Drew had suffered in order to make their viewing experience more enjoyable. I advised them that a word of thanks and inquiries about how he was feeling would be appropriate.

Drew returned to the room and sat down.

“Hey dude, ” Finn said, “That was cool of you to spray your butt for us.”

“It was,” Porter agreed. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” Drew said in his almost inaudible voice.

They settled down to watch the rest of Richie Rich, three brothers and the lingering scent of oranges.

June 2, 2006

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

“Rise and Shine!” I yell at my boys, just like my mom used to say. Today we leave to take Drew to camp. It’s his first time to go to camp and he’s one of the youngest campers. He’s thrilled. Bill has to work so it’s up to me to get all three boys to North Carolina and back.

9:30 am

The guys use our fabulous Dyson car cleaning kit to get the minivan ready.

“Why are we cleaning the car before we go?” Finn asks. “I mean, it’s just going to get dirty as soon as we stop for lunch.”

“Just do it,” I tell him, while I check to make sure that Drew has packed both his duck and his teddy bear.

10:00 am

We pull out of our driveway and head toward Atlanta.

10:05 am

The air conditioner begins emitting fiery blasts of air.

“My butt is sweaty,” Porter complains.

“Say ‘bottom,’ not ‘butt,’” I automatically correct him.

“My bottom is sweaty,” Porter says.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” I say.

10:06 am

The temperature gauge moves perilously close to HOT.

“Mom, I see smoke coming out of the front of the car,” Drew says cautiously.

“No need to worry!” I trill. “I’m on top of it!”

Damn.

10:10 am

We exit and head directly to the Express Oil Change for emergency treatment.

10:30 am

We are instructed to leave the van and wait for it to cool down so diagnostic tests can be performed.

“Why is that man crawling under the car?” Porter asks.

“To see what is wrong with it.”

“How can he tell what is wrong with it?” Porter asks.

“I don’t know, that’s just his job and he knows a lot about cars,” I say irritably.

“How did he learn so much about cars?” Porter asks.

“Porter, I’ll pay you a dollar if you can be quiet for five whole minutes.”

10:50 am

While we wait, I act like a mother gorilla and search the boys’ hair for mites and ticks. I don’t see any, but I do find a wad of chewing gum in Porter’s hair. I have plenty of time to unpack the van, locate my nail scissors, and chop it out. I sneakily trim his bangs while I’m at it.

11:15 am

The friendly Express Oil Change man begins forcing a green liquid into the bowels of the van. The boys are momentarily captivated, but soon grow tired of watching the liquid gurgle and drip onto the concrete floor.

11: 25 am

Boys begin rolling around on the floor in boredom.

“How much longer?” Porter asks.

“Not long,” I say unconvincingly.

“Mom, do you think I’m going to get to go to camp?” Drew asks as he climbs into my lap.

“Of course you are,” I assure him, although I am beginning to have some doubts.

11:40 am

The verdict: busted radiator; will take a full day to repair. We pull all the luggage, travel games, snacks and maps out of the clean minivan. I make countless phone calls searching for rescue. Eventually Aunt Su picks us up, loads our belongings, and takes us home to meet Bill. We repack everything in his car.

12:45 pm (CST)

We pull out of our driveway and head toward Atlanta.

“Hey, guys, let’s go to North Carolina,” I say, and then I pretend to giggle. Porter laughs. Drew looks a little less worried. Finn grimaces.

My iPod is playing a peculiar shuffle today– heavy on Prefab
Sprout, Billie Holiday and the Cowboys Junkies. “Good Morning, Heartache” is an apt description of our day so far but it isn’t uplifting driving music.

2:45 pm (CST)/3:45 pm (EST)

Atlanta’s traffic problem starts way before you actually get to Atlanta.

3:15 pm/4:15 pm

Atlanta’s rush hour apparently last all day. The city’s traffic problem extends far beyond the city limits of Atlanta, almost to Greenville.

“Mom, why are there so many cars here? Why Mom?” Porter asks.

“Porter, can you shut up?” Finn yells.

“Finn, don’t say ’shut up’ and don’t talk to your brother that way,” I scold. “Porter, don’t talk to me right now. There’s too much traffic and I have no idea where all these cars are coming from,” I snap.

3:45pm (EST) to 7:00pm (EST)

Traffic. Fast drivers. Cars. Construction. Police. Erratic drivers. Stop and go traffic. Stopped traffic. Interstate reduced to one lane. Slow drivers in the left lane. Orange cones. Where is Mama’s Klonopin?

Finn complains every time Porter opens his mouth, which is often. Drew has been asleep since Atlanta. The iPod starts “Scarborough Fair” and I fear I may vomit. There is too much traffic for me to search for Tom Petty. I do manage to press fast forward and find “Istanbul, Not Constantinople” and everyone perks up for a moment.

7:05 pm

Arrive Greenville Embassy Suites just in time to take advantage of Manager’s Reception. The gin and tonic alone is worth the price of the room; never could find that Klonopin.

8:00-9:00pm

We eat at the Olive Garden, then return to the room to get ready for bed. Porter opens his suitcase and discovers that the bottom of his toothpaste tube has busted open.

We all dip our toothbrushes into the tube as if it was a fluoride fondue. “Ha ha!” I laugh to the boys. “Isn’t this a fun trip? What a crazy tube of toothpaste!”

Finn looks at me resentfully.

9:30pm

I discover that the toothpaste actually exploded all over the inside of Porter’s suitcase. His sandals and clean shirt are covered. The whole room begins to smell minty fresh. I order everyone to bed and think, Scarlet-like, “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

The next morning we wake up. Although I washed out Porter’s toothpaste covered shirt, it didn’t dry. He puts on the same smelly shirt he’s been wearing for days for the short drive to camp.

On the way, Drew looks very solemn, although he tries to act upbeat.

We get to camp. All the counselors have funky facial hair. Drew is immediately captivated. We make sure he gets moved into his cabin, then we say goodbye as he goes off to do his swim test.

He looks skinnier, shorter, and paler than ever. I miss him already.

June 1, 2006

Exhausted Mom Seeks Validation

I have not cooked a meal in over a week.

I took the boys to the library only after listening to hours of begging, and have subsequently refused to read the twins any books out loud. I told them just to look at the pictures.

I have let the boys wander about the neighborhood and everywhere else without making sure they have brushed their teeth or hair.

I have relaxed my usual media standards and have used the computer and TV as babysitters over the past few days.

I have become short-tempered and snappish.

Last night I prayed, “Dear Lord, please help me keep these children alive just one more day.”

Here is the one visible thing I have accomplished.

Figure 1: Target shirt with lake sand, cricket, worm and fish guts, algae from previously submerged chair, red popsicle, miscellaneous stains.

Figure 2: Target shirt after application of Shout and wash in hot water with Tide and Oxy-Clean:

Please validate my laundering skill. It’s the only thing I’m proud of right now.