Summer Camp

It's that time of year again, the time for a little healthy, cut-throat, parental competition. This morning, the giant digital clock that has graced the splash page of the Chicago Park District's Summer Camp Program Website for the last 10,080 minutes counted down its last seconds.

I got up at 5:00 am. Ok fine, my alarm got up at 5, I rolled out of bed 45 minutes later. Aside from finishing up a few remaining Spanish compositions I had been meaning to grade, my focus was wholly dedicated to Kilbourn Park. You see, every April, the city of Chicago posts its list of upcoming Summer Camp programs. What does summer camp mean to the average family? It's a space where children can engage in a little healthy competition, practice their athletic coordination, learn the importance of group work. It's a place where they can make beautiful art projects out of discarded bottle caps and patriotically themed rubber coated wire. But mostly, it's a place to send your kids for less than $50 a week, for 6 glorious weeks.

I don't have my numbers straight, but by my estimate there were about 4 Summer Camp Programs that were feasible for my family, based on location, age range, and hours. Each of these 4 programs had anywhere from 20-50 spaces available for online registration. Does that sound like a lot?  The population of the city proper tops out at somewhere around 2,700,000. I have no idea how many of those are children, but this morning it felt like I was competing against them all.

After kicking the girls out of the car in front of their school at 8:30 am, I raced off to the 28-story block of cement that is my office building, got off at the 16th floor, burst into my drab office, tossed my bag on the extra chair and sat down at the computer with my morning's fourth cup of coffee. My phone was buzzing with frantic summer-camp texts from fellow mom-friends, and from Chris - who I had left at home in front of his computer, with his fourth cup of coffee.

We all sat in front of our separate computers, hearts racing, laughing in spite of ourselves. When was the last time my heart beat so wildly? My pulse raced so frantically?  I warmed my fingers up on the keyboard, practicing my moves: tap, tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. The clock counted down. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. I was in charge of registering Bela. Chris was in charge of registering Mae. Tick tock, tap tap. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

I don't think I will ever be able to fully convey the stress this causes me every April. Yes, I want Bela to learn how to play soccer. Sure, I love that there is an organic greenhouse on the grounds and they get to dig and plant. Of course the camaraderie, the fresh air, the media-free experience are something they'll probably never forget. But seriously, it's all about me. What on earth would I do with them if I alone were in charge of their entertainment for 10, 080 minutes every week, all summer long?