He’s not terribly sporty.
He plays soccer somewhat reluctantly and church basketball, a bit begrudgingly.
Perhaps it’s the running.
He’s not much into sweating.
It took years to get him out of a collared shirt, khaki shorts and loafers.
His spirit is sweet and giving, not so much competitive or cut throat.
We dropped his nervous self off at mountain camp today.
A birthday gift from his grandparents and after watching the promo video a half dozen times, he committed.
An old friend’s son would be there too and so, a familiar face makes a place not so scary.
Along the 45 minute winding route to Camp Ridgecrest, he was quiet and still and every so often, would ask how much longer.
I tried to appease this son of mine, a middle child, one of three boys.
I coached and cajoled, squeezed his nervous hand and smoothed back his too long hair that would soon be streaked gold from the sun.
I didn’t tell him that I was swallowing my own worry, hopeful that my son would be embraced as clever and quirky, in a good way.
Our arrival meant handing over luggage, temperature taking and a formal lice inspection.
Check. Check. Check, thank goodness.
Come over here to choose your activities for tomorrow.
We make all sorts of weapons.
A resounding yes.
Our fearful entry into Cabin 11 was halted by the friendliest of voices, “Hi, Russell! Want to come up here and play cards?”
And so, he did.
I made his bed, organized his loot, and before long, he and a gaggle of boys followed his big brother and set off to set up the hammock and play Gaga ball.
That’s where I spotted him, smiling and laughing amidst a group of boys.
I insisted on a picture, like all good mothers, and he was off.
I love a good bye.