My first summer at Jewish camp was back in 1994. In a move a bit out of character, I returned home from Hebrew school one day BEGGING my parents to send me to camp. And while my parents supported this choice, I’m sure there was some hesitation about having a bunch of college students “parent” in their stead for a month.
I love my girls. We have a blast together. We ski ALOT. We make endless fun of each other. Secret shopping trips and schlep into the city to seek out the newest ramen restaurant. But between passing 8th grade math and 6th grade science, Hebrew school carpools and sports practices, my relationship with my husband (who I also love dearly) barely has a chance of making it past the negotiations of who is driving carpool to a camp friend’s Bat Mitzvah nearly two hours away that weekend.
Standing in a tight circle in the woods of Northern California, a dozen 11-year-old boys brace their bodies to catch their companion. With eyes closed, body clenched, and arms crossed over his chest, the boy in the middle of the circle calls out to his summer camp bunkmates: “Spotters ready??”