Today is the last day of camp for my granddaughter, Raina. I have been reading the texts from my daughter, Alicia, since our conversation on Monday about how she is dealing with her oldest girl being gone from the household. Monday, she told me she was one of a couple of moms that stayed at the school, until the buses pulled out of the parking lot. Then she told me she texted Raina’s grandfather, so he could wave at the bus as it passed his home on Highway 70 in route to the campground. A passage in every sense of the word.
My daughter’s emotions were strong and heavy with this new experience. It took me back to Carlsbad, California, when Raina’s mom went to sixth grade camp. I don’t remember her leaving, as much as I remember her returning, waving at me as the bus pulled in the parking lot, yelling something I could not hear, and I remember a moment of panic, thinking, “What happened? Is she crying?”. When she ran to me, all smiles and open arms, I relieved to find she was full of joyful excitement, as only eleven year old’s can have, still with a child’s abandon, but with a preteen’s perspective. She made new friends at camp, Elisa and the twins, friends she has to this day.
She will find out if her girl made new friends, talked to a boy, had fun at the dance, even if she hurt her leg…yes, she had the dreaded call from the school nurse…but all is fine with Raina, the nurse said. I picture my granddaughter, putting on a brave face in front of her school mates, forgetting she even was hurting, as she danced and socialized with her friends, and didn’t even remember she was hurt until she was in bed, the last night of camp, rubbing her injury tenderly, thinking that her mom would probably put Neosporin on it when she got home…and boy does she have a lot to tell her Mom about her week at sixth grade camp.