Summer is a sea of transitions.
Remy leaves for camp in a couple of days. He had a transcendent time last summer. For the past few days, he’s entirely forgotten that part. Waves of tears and worry are followed by glimmers of remembering what he loved about camp. After the waves and the glimmers yesterday came a little recognition that maybe a week would be easy and two feels hard. We’ve done a lot of talking the last couple of days. Turning the corner to being resolved about the notion that camp will be all right is happening in bursts.
I was a tiny bit thrown by how much Remy’s struggled about this, given how much he loved camp last summer. When he comes up to hug me after he’s been melting down, I know that while I secretly want to say, “Oh, just stay here,” I’m doing the right thing by supporting him through all these feelings. My task is to let him feel the feelings while I remain confident that he’s going to love his time away. He totally will love his time away. Camp will be awesome.
Knowing how happy he will be is making this transition less nightmarish than others.
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Transitions are hard.
In summer, we are out at sea… constantly.
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Meantime, I have a list: get flashlight with rechargeable battery, work gloves and more socks. Books. Pick up some hand-me-down muck-worthy shoes. Prepare the bedding; put Sharpie to clothing. Transitions aren’t simply emotional; they are logistical puzzles. And by puzzles, I maybe mean Sunday Times’ crossword-strength—at least.
Oh, and I’ve been writing letters to camp so they arrive immediately and then daily.
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Meantime, we’ve been doing the kind of wrap you in some extra good closeness things with Rem this week, everything from picking blueberries and going to Osaka with his mama and pal Kate and big brother and visiting goddaughter (mine, not his) and his papa, plus Kate, plus her mom and he going to Glendale Falls yesterday after his tennis camp. We’ve played many rounds of Yahtzee. I’ve gone out of my way to feed him some favorite foods.
Having one less kid here this week has actually helped that to be easier. And that kids is totally enjoying being the sole kid with the grandparents. We get reports over the phone. He’s having a great time, he tells us. And then, he wants to talk to his elder brother. We get photographs of what he’s cooked. I’d say he’s peachy.
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A dear friend moved back here this week all the way from California. Her life at the moment is transition, for her and her husband, her daughter and son and dog. Talk about puzzles and emotional upheaval. It’s not hard for me; it’s a delightful treat. Her mother feels the same way and then some.
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Yesterday the email arrived with the school calendar. It comes about a month before the same information comes from the old school. I was thrown.
And then I set to write all the dates in my calendar. I realized that last summer we were in full-blown dread mode with the rising seventh grader. He hadn’t yet gotten into the Hilltown Charter School by the end of July and so I wasn’t thinking calendars or no calendars or our next guy making a transition to a new school as well. So much changed. So much keeps changing. Even in our settled spot.
I guess that really I shouldn’t be at all surprised.
I continue to be surprised, though by this whole change phenomenon. I continue to discover how often you have to go through some fear—or sadness or longing or wistfulness—before you can turn the corner to whatever comes next. I think it goes hope followed by resolve followed by swimming.
