It was a Sunday afternoon. We pulled into the Girl Scout camp in North Georgia, ready to drop off our eight-year-old daughter for six nights and five days. The moment of truth was at hand: would the girl actually go to camp?
I was betting against it. I’m only communicating what I’ve heard other people say about my daughter when I tell you that she’s a great girl—intelligent, funny, sweet. But, like her father, she’s prone to anxiety, and she’s also very attached to her loving family. There was no way she was going to agree to spend six nights away from her family, the first time she had ever done such a thing (not counting sleepovers), in the woods, with a few friends, yes, but also a load of strangers, including four teenage counselors who probably ran the camp’s cigarette trade.
And the place she was supposed to stay! It was a four-person tent right next to deep woods. No locks on the door flaps. No protection from summer thunderstorms, except for tent canvas.
There was no way she would go.
Her mother and I had already talked about this. And we agreed, if our daughter didn’t want to go, no problem. We were not going to force her to do it. She was still young enough for a Get Out of Camp Free card.
And so the moment came: all the parents were saying goodbye to their kids. We looked at our daughter and …
She gave us hugs and said, “Bye.”
She and her girlfriends were soon headed down to the lake for a swim test. Her little brother, now away from his sister’s “bossy” reproach, seemed equally satisfied with his sister going off to camp. It was Mom and Dad who didn’t know what to do as they drove away.
“Did you see that tent?” I asked. “What do they do when a thunderstorm hits in the middle of the night?”
“Do you think she’ll wear bug spray?” her mother asked. “She’ll get chigger bites!”
“Did you see how close her bed was to the woods?” I asked, leaving the thought hanging, where it festered and grew into a bear-sized nightmare that would drag her out of the tent in the middle of the stormy night!
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