Visiting Day
“You’re an idiot,” my wife, Lauren, affectionately tells me on our drive home from Visiting Day at our daughter Liz’s camp.
“Why?”
“The swimming. Tennis. Kickball!”
“They didn’t even play kickball,” I point out.
“Exactly.”
I take a cookie from my pocket.
“Where did you get that?” Lauren asks. “Did you steal a cookie?”
“Liz raves about these cookies.”
“You just had two ice creams.”
“One-and-a-half … oh, you’re not good with fractions. That’s between one and two.”
“Funny … I think I should be allowed to have an affair. There has to be a law which allows it in special circumstances like these.”
“If you do, can he at least pay for camp?”
Two hours earlier
Author’s Note: Liz’s day camp is an incredible place. I am simultaneously thrilled for her, and sad that many kids in our nation are having the exact opposite experience lately.
With that unfortunate reality noted, it’s the summer, and I figured a lighter topic like Visiting Day (and my idiocy) would be fun to document.
We arrive and step out of the car. I look around at the beautiful campus and take it all in.
“Okay, everybody sees you. You’re nostalgic,” Lauren says.
We find the check-in tent. Liz is in group KGB. (I’m not kidding.) I guess we know where this camp stands on election meddling.
Our first stop is the pool. According to the sticker on Liz’s shirt yesterday, she has passed the deep-water test. I need to see this for myself, though.1<—– CLICK ON THESE RED BOXES FOR MY TERRIBLE JOKES
There are four pools, each divided into four quadrants, with kids in each quadrant. This is important because among the sixteen areas, there will be sixteen groups of parents simultaneously unhappy that their child is in a group below their swimming ability.
I spot Liz. My baby. Well, she’s not such a baby anymore. She’s five (and ¾) and has an opinion on just about everything (Except when her grandparents, or any other adult, ask her a question. Then she’s non-verbal).
“Liz!” She waves. If it wasn’t for her long hair and again, those opinions, you might mistake her for a three-year-old. She has the same baby face and weighs less than my right leg.2
While the kids swim, I notice a woman with a clipboard speaking with a few parents. She is the keeper of swim levels. Her job today is to ward off all parents who are talking to her under the subterfuge of being friendly, when in fact they are subtly lobbying for their child to move up to a higher swim level. Pathetic. I think I’ll do the exact same thing.
“I’m Liz’s dad. How is she doing?”
“She’s swimming at a “Shark Level.” Maybe Liz is telling the truth. Nothing swims better than a shark.
“Wow, so that’s like the highest?” I ask.
“It’s above Guppy and Dolphin, but it’s still Level ‘1’,” she responds.
“Oh. But she passed some deep-water test?”
“Not the real one.”
“There’s more than one?”
“Yes.”
“And they’re both called the deep-water test?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should consider giving them different names,” I suggest.
So Liz was full of shit. Her test wasn’t really in deep water. I mean, technically it was when you’re three feet tall. In fairness, they’ve been feeding her unwarranted swimming ego by giving her bracelets and stickers and diplomas.
Clipboard Woman has escaped. I follow her but Lauren grabs my arm. “How about watching your daughter swim?”
Swimming finishes and I search for a bathroom. I pass a Go Kart track, a Rock Climbing wall (which it takes all my willpower to avoid scaling), and a place called Legoland which might be the coolest place ever.
I come upon a kickball game in progress. Within a minute, I decide that kickball is more fun than any activity I’ve done this century. I definitively conclude that I wouldn’t need to take Prozac if I could play kickball all day.
A foul ball lands near me and I retrieve it. The outfielder comes over, but rather than hand her the ball, I drop the awesome bouncy red ball in front of me.
The poor girl looks more confused than my GPS in a parking lot.
“I got this.” I wind up and kick it to the pitcher. Perfect strike. Still got it.
Lauren is standing right there. “Enjoying yourself?”
“You said I should exercise.” 3
We head to the courts to watch Liz play tennis. Well, not really. I was a tennis player growing up (before the veal stage) and I’m offended that they call this tennis. The campers wear a giant foam hand and stand next to a machine which blows the ball up into the air and keeps it up while the kids swing at it.
As a gift to Lauren, I pretend I’m mute during the entirety of the tennis. Although I do briefly break my vow of silence to remark that this is precisely the reason why we can’t qualify for the World Cup. “They’re on the streets in Croatia passing around a soccer ball, while our children are doing this.”
Gymnastics is next. Why can’t they play kickball?
Liz appears disinterested in gymnastics. It’s clear we have not conceived the next Mary Lou Retton. It’s even more clear that I have the bladder of an octogenarian.
On my walk to the bathroom, I wander into the cafeteria and spot chocolate chip cookies. These must be the famous camp cookies. I slip one into my pocket. This will serve two functions. It will soften the cookie, and also disguise my thievery.
Visiting Day is almost complete. Before we leave, we experience the most fun part of Liz’s day: Ice cream social!
They offer ice cream to the parents too. I make sure I’m not the first to indulge. As soon as I see another father chowing down though, I take an ice cream sandwich.4
Liz looks bored by her ice cream cone. “Do you want to switch?” I offer. She happily trades her untouched cone for my half-eaten ice cream sandwich. Smart exchange by me.
Visiting Day was a success. Holy crap! Liz gets to do this every day? I did not appreciate camp as much as I should have as a kid. I hope that was my neuroses, and the smile on her ice-cream-sandwich-stained face is a sign that she is more like her mother.
We give Liz a kiss and head to the car.
“That was fun, but I can’t wait for them to go to sleepaway camp,” I remark. Every night, I walk my dogs past our neighbors’ house. Their sons are in sleepaway camp, and it’s one big party. I make sure my dog, Sawyer, poops on their lawn. I pick it up, but remnants are likely left behind. It’s a way for me to even the playing field.
“There’s a Visiting Day at sleepaway camp too,” Lauren points out. “Actually Brett, I think we’ll find her a camp that doesn’t have a Visiting Day.”
Brett’s memoir, WHAT COULD GO WRONG? – My Mostly Comedic Journey through Marriage, Parenting and Depression, is now available! Click the Amazon button below and your book will come with one of those camp cookies (I might be lying.)
