He’s in summer camp.
It’s not a sleep away camp.
It’s not even a full-day camp.
But it meets every day, for two weeks.
And its hours are longer than his preschool was last year.
I enrolled him for a couple reasons.
I wanted him to become comfortable with his new school.
But I also thought I might need a reprieve.
I wasn’t sure how this summer would go.
When his preschool dismissed in May, I worried the summer would be endless.
I wasn’t sure how I would handle caring for two young children, with no regular help, for three months.
I was used to my son going to school two mornings a week.
I counted on that time.
So I thought two weeks of camp would be good for all of us.
A mid-summer break.
Camp began earlier this week.
And he seems to love it.
On his first day, after his nap, he asked me if he could go back.
He talks about the wooden train, the water slide, the bubbles.
The climbing structures.
The art projects.
He thinks it’s great.
The break is nice, I guess.
I’m able to get caught up on work.
Run some errands.
Focus on the baby, as she fights a cold.
But something’s wrong.
I miss him.
When we pull out of the parking lot, the car feels empty.
I’m used to the nonstop talking, the questions.
To constantly reminding him not to jump from the ottoman to the sofa and to be gentle when he hugs the baby.
To sharing oranges and stories and laughter.
To rocking his sister to sleep together.
Those four hours in the morning?
They’re too quiet.
Two days in, and I’m ready for camp to be over.