The princess is at her first sleep-away camp this week. This is a rite of passage for both of us.
She will swim, canoe and learn to sail a Sunfish.
I will mope, pout and be just a little ashamed that I spent the extra 10 bucks so I could view digital photos of her enjoying various activities at camp, updated hourly.
So while she thinks she's making papier mache crafts and learning how to use a bow and arrow and dive off a diving board into water that, frankly, doesn't look all that clean to me, away from the prying eyes of her meddlesome mommy, it's not exactly so.
The old hippie in me can't believe that I've done this. Camp should be a retreat in total, not an excuse for me to spy on my own kid, right? How Big Brother is that?
But I can't help myself. When she comes home, dare I say, "and just why was that blond boy sitting so close to you on the hayride at 3 p.m. Monday?"
Or: "Those cinnamon rolls at breakfast Tuesday morning looked amazing. I don't know why you had to share half of yours with that blond boy. Who is that kid, anyway?"
I'm kidding; there's no boy, just a lot of giggly girls her own age, including her best girlfriend from church. Whose clothes she appears to be wearing.
It's only Day 1 and, according to the photos, Soph has already used up five of the 10 outfits we packed plus some of her friend's. I want to scream. This is supposed to be a rustic, back-to-nature camp experience, not Project Runway.
And she's doing something funky with her hair, too. I can see it right there. Zoom in closer ... enlarge photo ... Oh. Never mind. That's somebody else's kid. Crap. I just clicked to buy a photo of somebody else's kid. I am officially nuts.
I can tell she hasn't put on enough of the SPF 50 that I bought for her. There appears to be too much pink on her shoulders and the tip of her nose. Ohmigod! There's a Band-Aid on her left knee. And it's not even a cute one. I want to weep.
To be honest, Sophie, burned and scarred as she is, seems to be having the time of her life. Away from me. And this is exactly as it should be as she prepares to spread her wings a bit before the start of (insert stabbing pain in my left temple) MIDDLE SCHOOL.
Although, thanks to the wonders of digital uploads, she's not nearly as away from me as she thinks. Heh-heh-heh.
The guilt has set in. I resolve not to look at the photos for the rest of the week. Something about it just doesn't feel right. I'll let her daddy do it.
