Camp, and an adults-only Scandinavian trip for two

Well, the boys have been at camp for eleven days, and we've received one letter from Jack (lovely and newsy) and five from Oliver (not remotely informative but extremely amusing). We have sent letters and packages and spied photographic evidence of the boys via the once-weekly photo upload we receive from camp. Last Thursday, when I called to schedule our birthday phone call with Jack, I learned that Oliver was on an overnight camping trip to an island they'd canoed to and that Jack was doing a coastal excursion where he'd see a lighthouse and study some tide pools before getting to eat lobster (I fully know he opted for the hot dog). Today I found out that Oliver also went on a four-night camping trip.

Presumably all of this means they are happy and enjoying themselves which thrills us to no end. Not least because it means they are escaping the 900 degrees with equal humidity that is DC right now. 

Tom and I have continued to bask in unscheduled and quieter living. I've had a bunch of clients, made jam, gardened a ton, and seen friends. 

Tomorrow we leave for our first trip abroad sans kids in more than twelve years. Despite the fact that neither of us has started packing, we are so, so excited. We arrive in Copenhagen on Thursday and have five days there before moving on to Malmö and then Stockholm. This trip was largely inspired by my love of the Scandinavian literature I've read as well as our love of Scandi design (primarily Danish and mid-century) and food. I'm also extremely interested in countries, like Denmark and Sweden, that have taken the climate change bull by the horns and are dealing with it aggressively and successfully with almost complete buy-in from their citizens. From recycling to home design to alternative fuel sources, I think it's fair to say that Scandinavia has an enormous leg up on the States in this regard. Also, we really enjoyed seeing some of Norway last summer, so all in all, a marvelous adventure to look forward to.

I'll blog from the road. For those enduring the heat wave in the States right now, stay cool. And even though he won't/can't read this (cuz no electricity at camp), please join me in wishing my beautiful Jack a happy 12th birthday. He was born at 7:14am on the 4th of July. I remember his birth like it was yesterday. I love you, Doodle!

The boys are settled in, and now we wait

I still don’t have access to Em-i-lis on any computer so remain stuck typing on my phone. It’s extremely annoying, but alas. At least I know where my children are, and I know they’re safe and well cared for.

Our trip to Maine to move them into camp couldn’t have been lovelier. We flew to Portland, ate a lobster roll (they had chicken fingers, y’all. Sigh.), and drove to Belgrade where we checked into a darling inn, met another camper Ol’s age, took a dip in the lake, ate a truly delicious meal, lit sparklers, and tried to get the kids and their unbridled enthusiasm to bed. 

lobster rolls and clam chowder at Miller Bros seafood

Camp is on a small island, and the first boat from shore wasn’t leaving until 1p. Up early, we did everything possible to pass the time, as the kids were champing at the bit to “get there.” I started to wonder if their glee would wane at all- would goodbyes actually be not so bad?

After pastries, chess,  coffee, a quick visit to Colby College, a walk through Waterville (home of Colby), lunch, and a practice drive to the dock, we returned to the dock 45 minutes early. 

It was a perfect, glorious day. The boys ran around with the friend they’d made the evening before. They met some new kids and dipped their toes in the water. Finally, it was our turn. 

The camp sits in an idyllic, bucolic place. Everything feels crisp and clean and pure. There is no cell reception. Indeed the only electricity is in the dining hall’s kitchen. Open-sided, raised tents and hammocks dot the land. The gathering hall/library/game room is the stuff of dreams. Hogwarts meets summer camp.

We made the boys’ beds, toured camp, met other families, and started to feel a touch nervous. I don’t know that either J or O had really thought about what it actually means to not see or talk to us for six weeks. I had, which had resulted in not a few tears over the week leading up to the adventure. But thus are the lovely truths of both childhood and adulthood, and ultimately we met in the middle and cried it all out. 

Forcing ourselves to gently break our embraces and kiss the boys and encourage them to go exploring with two of the outstanding counselors we met was almost painful. The boat ride back to the mainland was somber, and I waved until the boys were but specks on the horizon. 

Later, via the Facebook parent page for camp, I heard from the mom of one of Ol’s tentmates that when she moved her son in, Ol seemed happy and excited. That did my and Tom’s hearts so good.

We both have a great feeling about this summer, about the ways the boys will grow and become more independent, and also the ways we will.  

The 18 hours T and I spent in Portland after leaving Belgrade was a great start. I plan to share that soon- the food is off the charts delish.

Keep your fingers crossed we get a letter soon! 

Father’s Day

I’m writing this via my phone as I’m locked out of my blog everywhere else (long, exceedingly annoying story), so please forgive any typos or incoherence. 

We had a lovely Father’s Day celebrating Tom and talking to my dear father and getting good time with T’s dad at the beach last week. And yet the whole day was tinged with a decidedly black cast by the fact that the Trump administration has torn more than 2,000 kids from their parents at the Mexico-US border as they staggered across seeking asylum. They have a legal right to do so, and we have a moral obligation to offer safety, and yet, we are treating them as less than human, as burdensome garbage. 

People don’t leave their homes unless they really have to. Unless they’re terrified or being abused or endangered or are deeply desperate due to poverty or violence or the like.

Today, able to hug and love the children that made us parents, we took the boys to a protest at the White House on behalf of the #KeepFamiliesTogether movement. It was all I could think to do in the face of the rage and impotence I felt and continue to feel.

The stories coming from the border are horrible. An infant ripped from its mother’s breast while feeding, taken away, the mother not told where. Who is feeding that baby now? With what? How?

We see photographs of sobbing toddlers, kids with sheets of foil as blankets, behind chain-link walls. Cages of sorts. We are told they get one hour outside a day, that the folks who staff the detention center are not allowed to hug or comfort them.

We read reports about strangers caring for the younger kids in their cells, teaching others how to change diapers.  

We hear lies about family separation being law. It is NOT law.  

We hear that NOT ONE Republican senator has signed on to co-sponsor Senator Feinstein’s Keep Familes Together Act, and so it languishes, as do the children, the babies in detention camps in our own country.  One father killed himself last week just after being forcibly separated from his children; he couldn’t stand it. 

A tent city has been proposed. In Tornillo, TX. A TENT CITY! In America! Is no one in the disgraceful White House with a heart? Does no one wonder what traumatizing people might reap? On our souls? On our safety?

And so we made another protest sign, filled a bottle with ice and water, and parked ourselves in front of the White House. 

When will we reach bottom? When will any Republican running for re-election grow a pair and scream “ENOUGH!” At what cost does this hate and bigotry and destructive  nationalism come? I fear we don’t even know yet. 

Rise up, call your senators and congressional reps, donate to organizations helping at the border, be kind. Keeping families safe and together shouldn’t be political or partisan.

This morning, before I called my dad, I told my boys about a Father’s Day decades ago. Dad was attending an Episcopal church then, and I went with him that morning. A parishioner named John was there, bereft and lonely. Dad invited him home for lunch with us, no head’s up to Mom, and at our table there was room and plenty and love.

I hope that someday this country can actually be great. Can actually offer the promise of hope and dreams and opportunity and love. We're falling so short right now. I am ashamed and sorry and scared.