It’s the first week of April and I have not signed my children up for summer camp yet. The squares on my calendar spanning from the middle of June to the end of August – the 10 full weeks that make up summer vacation -- are blank.

I am at once calm and panicked. I am proud not to have succumbed to the pressure to plan our summer schedule half a year in advance. I am terrified that those summer days will blend into weeks and then months of whining boredom.

Like Christmas decorations, the camp brochures seem to arrive earlier each year. Glossy pamphlets began filling my mail box in early February. Sorting the mail tempts me to live not in the moment, but to propel myself months into the future. On a cold, grey, mid-winter afternoon, I give in and anticipate what we’ll be doing the first week in August.

I imagine spontaneously packing up the car with a cooler and towels to head off to the beach looking like some family out of the Lands' End catalog. I picture us taking long bike rides, going on picnics, working a lemonade stand, making hand-cranked ice cream. But experience tells me that after a few days of hanging out with Mom, my kids will crave time with their friends. And their friends won’t be free to join us on an outing to the beach. They will all be in camp.

With resignation, I settle down to register fearing most camps will already be full. I sift through the pile of promotions. The possibilities are endless, overwhelming, and the cost often outrageous. I’ll need a spread sheet and a GPS device just to figure out whether I can promptly deliver two children to two different camps in opposite directions during the correct week – the week their best friends can also attend. (I have been known to show up at last week’s sports camp only to realize that my child is currently attending art camp on the other side of town.)

My 7-year-old daughter and I narrow the choices down to horseback riding, musical theater, cooking, ceramics, and gymnastics. My 11-year-old son considers soccer, kayaking, clay animation, golf, newspaper reporting, and fencing. Suddenly, there are not enough weeks of summer (or dollars in my bank account) to accommodate their preferences let alone squeeze in a family vacation.

I throw up my hands in dismay. I want to go to camp.

By Tina Bournazos

Labels: summer camps, vacations

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My 4-year-old announced for at least the tenth time as we drove to the airport that she WOULD be taking her prized purple roller suitcase on the plane with her. The idea had moved to the top of her list of cool things to do ever since our last flight. It was then that she realized some passengers actually brought their luggage on the plane with them -- and she’d been missing out.

“We’ll see, honey,” I muttered under my breath. Not on your life sister, I thought.

I’m proud of her independent streak. But from past experience I know that in her hands -- in a busy airport -- the little purple suitcase can be a lethal weapon. I’ve seen terror on the faces of other travelers as they’ve narrowly escaped having their toes pulverized or knees bashed by this deadly duo as it steamrolls its way from curb to check-in counter.

“Okay, honey -- give the lady your case,” I instructed her when it was our turn to check in.

“NO! I’m taking it on the plane!”

“No, you’re not,” I said as the woman behind the counter eyed me and my tiny foe skeptically.

Minutes passed as we wrestled with the suitcase. My daughter’s protests grew louder. The line behind us grew longer. It was time to pull out the big guns.

“Honey, if you give the lady your suitcase, we’ll get jelly beans,” I cajoled, digging deep into my bribery arsenal.

Surely the promise of a favorite treat -- before breakfast -- would do the trick.

She just glared.

Peering over my shoulder, I saw a sea of hostile faces staring back at me. The woman behind the counter looked equally irritated. It was time for this showdown to end. And I knew I wouldn’t be the victor.

Trust me -- I don’t always cave in to my daughter’s demands. As a mom, though, I’ve found that living by the mantra “choose your battles” is sometimes necessary to preserve my sanity.

“You are NOT getting jelly beans,” I hissed as we walked away.

“But I want something UNHEALTHY!”

She didn’t get the jelly beans. But she did have an ear-to-ear grin as she lugged that suitcase onto the plane.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: children, luggage, mothers, vacations

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