My life is as a voyeur. In fact, social media has turned us all into complete voyeurs. We follow blogs of people we have never met, are cheerleaders for Team Ethan, and wait for the next post from Superman Sam’s mom. Who hasn’t clicked on the Facebook page of the first person that broke their heart way back when? Not to mention trying to keep up with the Instagram pages of our kids and their 617 friends. Oh and all those beautiful “how to get beachy waves” tutorials—I keep watching, and it ain’t working. And, it is about to get much worse…
I am about to become the biggest voyeur of them all. It’s time for camp pictures. Every year I promise myself that I am not going to be tied to my CampMinder, the pictures can wait until morning. Yet once my kids leave, every night as it nears 10pm, I find myself reaching for my phone, the iPad, or fighting my husband for the computer to catch a glimpse of my smiling girls at camp. Or at least a pic of a kid in a t-shirt that I think could possibly belong to one of my kids (that means they have friends, right?), or a corner of one of their towels as they zip by the background of the picture (if they are wrapped in a towel, they aren’t lost on the lake), or a lost flip-flop that found its way into a picture (inevitably, things won’t make it home).
I am a pro at this. I preach it: camp is the best thing to happen to kids since, well, ever. I know they are having the time of their lives and there is no greater gift I could give them. I also know the camp sifts through the pictures before posting them so even if there was one of someone having a questionable moment, I would never know it from the 548+ images posted each night. Yet, I just need to see one picture.
I’ve made some progress though. The first year my daughter was at camp, I would wake up at 2am and look at the pictures through very sleepy eyes if they weren’t posted before I fell asleep.
So, here are some promises I made to myself that I can keep this summer: I won’t call the camp freaking that they lost my children if they aren’t in pictures for a few days. And I won’t laugh at you that you did call the camp (and we will all know that you did when the first 7 pictures the next day are like a Bar Mitzvah montage of your kid)—I get it. I won’t give my kid a signal—it is really annoying to every other parent.
And I will apologize in advance for my behavior. If we happen to be out for dinner and I am in the bathroom for a few minutes too long, and slip my phone into my husband’s hands when I return to the table, sorry. Maybe by next year I’ll be able to wait for morning. But for now, my kids “live 10 for 2,” and I live for 10pm.
I can’t wait for my daughter to go to camp and learn how to talk to boys.
My parents claim I walked into my room at 13, picked up my swatch phone and didn’t reemerge until I was 17. There were concerns that they would have to surgically remove that thing from my ear. Now as my daughter is entering that same phase, I actually wish she would pick up the phone. Her conversations are all done through texts—it’s like Pavlov’s dog waiting for that bing to come from her “friends.” I wonder if this can even be considered a conversation:
What r u doin’
Hangin with DK. Bball. U
Like my insta pic
Put me in ur bio
C u ltr
Yup, they are besties. She will see this same boy when we are out doing an errand in town and they’ll give each other that teen head tilt greeting and maybe mumble something that resembles a hello. God forbid they should actually talk to each other, especially when they’re with their parents no less (apparently, it is totally uncool to have parents—unless 12 kids need to be transported somewhere or accompanied to the midnight preview of Fault in Our Stars then it is completely acceptable).
As it turns out, this social media stuff isn’t all that social. We have a generation of kids that can barely muster the courage to call each other to borrow a forgotten text book, make an after school plan or chat long into the night pushing the limits on bedtime (maybe if we played up this part, they would be more apt to do it.) Thank God for grandparents and other relatives that still use a landline or my kids would never have learned how to have a conversation on a phone. I make it a point of teaching my kids how to talk to adults—they thank their coaches after every game and practice: if they can’t find their size in a store, it is up to them to ask a salesperson for help and as soon as they could; they order for themselves in a restaurant. But I can’t teach them how to talk to boys.
I married one of those guys I talked on the phone long into the night. And learned how to talk to him, and other boys, at camp. In this video we made to talk about camp one of the girls says “the girls are my sisters; the boys are like my brothers.” Truer words have never been spoken. We learned to swim together, ate together, lead song session together. Everyone is cool at camp. What made us different and unique was celebrated, where in middle school we may have been made fun for the very same thing. We learned how to be part of a community and get things done—and sometimes that included sharing secrets of who liked who.
Even if these days our main form of communication is just a text to share old song lyrics that popped into my head or just to say I am here for you when you need me, I consider my camp guy friends some of my closest based on those early years. I hope my daughter will be able to build a foundation like this too, creating deep friendships that last a lifetime.
There always was the honeymoon. Then people started taking babymoons—a trip when they were pregnant, before their world was turned upside-down by a kid. Now I am getting ready for my seven week long CAMP-MOON. Obviously, I think camp is the best thing since sliced bread for all the right reasons—kids come home more independent, they develop new skills like leadership and community building, they’re better swimmers and can zipline with the best of them. They are more engaged Jewishly, may have led a service or sang a blessing, or were just in the company of great role models. And then there are a few more reasons, selfish ones, that we often don’t talk about.
I love my kids—with every ounce of my being. I love kissing their heads after they are fast asleep, I love how they cheer me down a ski mountain and I return the favor by cheering from the sidelines at umpteen softball and soccer games a year (we won’t mention the trips to the ER , really, I could live without those). I even love the late night questions. Tonight I got hit with “Mommy, we don’t believe in Jesus but we believe in Chinese medicine, right?” and “If twins are born at 11:59 pm on Monday and 12:01 am on Tuesday are they still twins? What if those days were New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day?” (Thank you, Google for confirming that they still are twins. Apparently my saying so just wasn’t enough).
Even though I long for all of this when they’re gone, I love sending my kids off to camp so I get the chance to reconnect—with myself, my friends and my husband. Who are we kidding? By reconnecting I really mean, eating. That bus pulls out of the parking lot, and my husband and I whip out our restaurant wish-list and start making reservations. Come on, anyone that just packed two kids for camp (while holding down a full time job) definitely deserves a cocktail. We have been waiting 10 months for this (live 10 for 2!).
So maybe it is a little more than a gluttonous journey through NYC’s finest. It is the time my husband and I have to actually have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around logistics, grades and rules for texting that we can barely enforce. We fall in love with each other all over again. These few weeks give me time to carve out real conversations with my girlfriends, not just a call them from the train to confirm that one of us is pawning off our kid on the other that weekend so we don’t have to pay for a babysitter.
Sure I miss my kids, miss their sleepy morning faces and shuttling them around from place to place. Even though I swear I won’t, I scan those camp pictures like every other Jewish mother. But I cherish the time I have with my husband. I love not having to make a train and run through the station, praying I make it to a game to see my 10 year old pitch. Each day will inevitably start the same “Honey I can’t possibly go out again tonight” A green juice for breakfast, a salad for lunch and by 3:00…”a two-top please! We are on our camp-moon.”
There is a list of the 50 Most Amazing Summer Camps in the U.S. making the rounds on the internet. It is posted on a site about education degrees that has no credentials. And the list offers no criteria. One might think I am a little bitter since none of the camps FJC works with are on it. No, not at all. Just disappointed that such a thoughtless list would garner so much attention (all my Facebook friends can stop sending me the list now, thanks for thinking of me…)
I skimmed the 50 blurbs, they all talk about majestic mountains, facilities, and camp amenities (come on—this isn’t a hotel peeps!). Where is the talk about the soul of the camp? A camp can have the most incredible facilities, but that does not mean that the director and staff are going to have the same values and goals that you do. Skimming through, not one talked about staff training, mentorship, or role modeling. Swap the horseback riding for the pristine baseball diamond and they seem pretty interchangeable to me.
I would hope every place you send your kid—school, camp, art class, football field—is a safe environment where they can grow and try new things. But I suggest that as you start exploring camp options for your child, you delve deeper into the magic of each camp. Ask the director how they make that magic happen. It is in the how and why they make that happen that makes a camp truly “amazing.” Dig in and find out what makes each camp special. I promise you—it is in the people—not the fancy rock wall.
When you talk to camp directors, you should tell them about your child and what type of environment makes him thrive. Ask how they promote community. What type of staff they hire. How they train the staff. What values they promote throughout the summer. I promise that there is a perfect match out there for you and your child. As parents, we sometimes get caught up in the window dressing. Wanting to find the absolute best for our kids. So, take a step back and remind yourself what “best” really means for your family. It is hard to make “lifelong friends” with kids that don’t have the same values as yours.
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There has got to be something between Speedo and slutty.
I would love to meet all the girl and tween bathing suit designers out there. Just five minutes—so they can explain to me why it is necessary for there to be a bright pink hang tag that says “Fab fit feature…REMOVABLE PADS! How cool is that!” on a tankini in a girls size 8? Besides still playing a little dress-up in my bras, my 9-year-old is blissfully unaware of her chest (as she should be!). Please tell me why this is remotely necessary? And I’d love to know why there is a plethora of string bikini options for the elementary school set and very little options for those of us that prefer to keep our girls a tiny bit more covered, yet stylish.
I realize some girls develop earlier than others. My 12-year-old is an early bloomer—but would rather die than see that tag on a bathing suit. If you ask her, she doesn’t see why any kid would want to make her breasts look bigger.
Being the mom of 9- and 12-year-old girls, I have some pretty hard and fast rules for bathing suits. No string bikinis (there needs to be a serious band holding that top on!) no bra style or push up tops (yup—they are out there) no tie bottoms, no cut outs, no low cut bottoms—you get the picture. There are slim-pickings out there. Over the past month—a slew of boxes from Delia’s, Target, Nordstrom and Zappos have arrived on our doorstep (complete with huffing from my husband…) promptly to be repacked for returns after they turned out to be skimpier than they appeared to be online.
It is a given that one of us leaves the dressing room with tears in their eyes when we are bathing suit shopping. Them for being disappointed I won’t give in to the Roxy string bikinis that all the surfer girls wear—or me, thinking about how crazy it is that we have sexualized our children so much—in the way they dress and the media they are exposed to. I am far from a prude. You’re an adult? The more cleavage the better. Go for it—rock that string bikini. Maybe there should be an age restriction on this type of stuff like there is on voting and driving.
I am raising my girls with the hope that they are comfortable in their own skin—both physically and emotionally. Which is hard enough when “thigh gap” and “airbrushing” are part of their vernacular. They’re summer experiences at camp plays a big role in this for my girls. For seven weeks every year, the media and celebrity influences fade into the background. They test out new personas, new friendships and even new outfits (no bikinis are allowed at camp though!). They have a place where the pressure cooker of the everyday is a little less intense. Sure I cringe when I see a picture of them at camp in a pinney with just a bandeau underneath—and then I remind myself how glad I am that they are comfortable enough with themselves to pull it off. Yet, I plead with you Mr. and Mrs. Bathing Suit Designer—remember us moms that are trying to keep our girls little just a bit longer.
Every summer “my camp” posts their Top 10 song session songs. And each year I look at it in great anticipation and then amazement that eight out of 10 are on my list of ultimate camps songs. The others, I have come to know and love from my camp visits every summer.
Each song – whether it by written by Pete Seeger, James Taylor, Debbie Friedman, or long forgotten color war generals – has a special spot on the soundtrack of my youth. It never fails to bring me back to a dining hall song session, standing on a bench, or a campfire belting it out, arms around my besties.
At 9, 10, 11 years old I didn’t understand the politics behind “Where Have all the Flowers Gone” or “If I Had a Hammer.” All I knew, was I just couldn’t get enough of them. Well, Pete Seeger, thanks for the memories for me, my bunkmates, and Jewish campers wishing everyday ended with a campfire, a guitar, and s’mores.
To everything there is a season – except maybe for the soundtrack of my youth, I’ll keep that in heavy rotation all year round.
I am sick of hearing about the VMAs and Miley Cyrus. Yup – she got on stage in a latex bikini, twerked with Robin Thicke and stuck her tongue out, a lot. Lady Gaga was wearing a mermaid thong get-up and lots of others dressed, danced and used language in a way we may not want our 11 year olds to replicate. Get over it. They are entertainers – provocateurs – in a world where 15 minutes of fame is now measured in a 6 second Vine. We are parents and this is where some of the hard stuff comes in. Stop the mass whining and start the real discussions.
What did we expect from a show celebrating the art of music videos on a channel that doesn’t even play music videos anymore? As I see it – the whole goal of the show to raise awareness of MTV- and they are going to do that by pushing the envelope, as they do every year. Otherwise we would be writing blog posts about how they have lost their edge and aren’t connected to their core audience (which, by the way, is 18-34 year olds).
Whenever something happens that requires dealing with some tough parenting issues, the blogosphere goes crazy. Sure – the show was rated PG and the content was more risqué than that. To be expected from a channel that isn’t Disney. I watched bits and pieces of the show, and was more embarrassed for myself that I had to Google “twerking” (I was getting it confused with duffnering and couldn’t figure out why twitter was going nuts) than I was for the entertainers. I went to bed feeling every one of my 41 years. My kids didn’t watch, but by 10 am on Monday they had seen plenty of GIFs and YouTube videos that probably were edited to make it worse than the actual performances.
So, while making Rainbow Looms, we had some great conversation last night. We talked about what “sexy” means to a nine year old, how it doesn’t equate to pretty, and what makes it bad and good. That led to talking about what is appropriate behavior for our family (and how short our shorts can be) and who our role models should be. I told them about the counselors that were the first responders and revived Ethan Kadish, those that ran into a burning bunk at Camp Simcha to get the campers out safely. We talked about the firefighters in the thick of it fighting the California Rim Fire. We talked about their counselors, their teachers, their coaches, their Sunday school aides. The people that shared services with them this summer, talked them through getting up on waterskiis for the first time, cheered on their goals and helped them through some friendship issues. Hopefully, when the girls are making decisions, they will look towards these people, not someone dressed up as a teddy bear.
I am not going to point fingers and say that Billy Rae should throw a sweater on his daughter or wire her mouth shut. I wouldn’t want him to come into my house and question the parenting decisions I have made over the years. Miley works hard and has done so her whole life – voice lessons, acting lessons, dance class, working out and probably lots more. She gave up a “regular” childhood so we could plop our kids down in front of a “wholesome” show when we needed to cook dinner or catch and extra few minutes of sleep on a Sunday morning. In essence, we created her. We bought the concert tickets, the t-shirts, the dolls and that damn guitar (that I still can’t figure out how to shut off) with her face plastered on it. Coming of age in a digital world isn’t easy for anyone, let alone a child star. The tools for adoration are instantaneous. When The Beatles hit the stage or Mick Jagger perfected his swagger, there was a clip on the 5:00pm news and a picture in a magazine a month later. Today we turn to social media as quick to love as we are to hate.
As someone who struggles to get up in front of a roomful of colleagues for a formal work presentation, part of me wants to congratulate Miley for having no shame and for having the confidence to get up in front of millions knowing very well that for everyone that is going to love her, many more will pan her.
Online, on TV or in a newspaper, our children are going to see and hear things that are inappropriate. Our children’s own actions, words, grades, tweets, photos and attire will disappoint and hurt us as much as they make us proud. Billy Rae came right out with a tweet supporting his daughter. We all support our children in ways we see fit. Some of us will choose tough love, others will take the “I’m your best friend” route and some will try to fix everything for their children. For me, I can only arm our children with the knowledge and values I think are important. How will they act upon it? I’ll have to follow along on Instagram.
When “Camp Gyno” came out last week I immediately sent it around to all my friends with the subject line – “Camp – Hysterical.” And at first watch, it is. The writing is fabulous, the actress is brilliant. The tie-dye t-shirts, string bracelets, totally authentic (full disclosure: it was filmed at Surprise Lake Camp – one of the camps we work with here at FJC). I am sure tampon creative execs are reeling about how this mom got it so right out of the gate and they still make commercials full of 20-somethings prancing around in white jeans and jars full of blue liquid to prove absorbency.
It was the nostalgia that got me. The commercial is an ode to every female camper, ever – a compilation of our story, our language, our history. Every bunk had a period guru – Menstrual Mommy, Auntie Flo. We all have a story of whispering in the back bathroom trying to learn to use a tampon so we could swim and no one would know. I always felt bad for non-campers. How the hell did they learn this stuff?!
The video deals with some really important themes in a minute and 47 seconds – being an outcast, gaining and managing popularity, and just talking to your friends about periods. Kudos to Hello Flo founder Naama Bloom and BBDO for that. I love how they talk in real language too. It may not be the correct language, but it is the language we use – “vag,” “gyno” – it is how we talk. It makes the “icky” accessible.
But as I watched the video a few more times, it got a little less funny each time. I started thinking: does this fabulous video send the wrong message in the end? It gives great insight into a teen girl’s first period experience. So why are we willing to take that conversation and tuck it away into a plain brown box? I am not really a women’s libber, but are we still so embarrassed that we can’t go into a store and buy a box of pads? Is it necessary to have them “discretely” delivered to our door every month? Do we really want to teach our daughters that they need to hide it away? Yes, it is hard at 12, 13, 14, 28, 42 years old to walk around with pads and tampons in your knapsack. Hard, yes. Shameful, no. I think that good parenting is giving your kid the tools to help them through hard things. Sometimes that tool is a extra pretty Vera Bradley pouch that you would never buy for a 12 year old, but will make carrying pantiliners that much less hard. If I can’t show my daughters that I can walk into CVS and buy a big old box of tampons as easily as I do shampoo and Altoids, how will she learn to do it?
The commercial starts out with campers having a dialogue about periods. They just put it out there. No shame, no pretense because camp is the place where kids learn to overcome fears, to have hard conversations, and gain independence.So I’ll be damned if I am going to throw that all away because periods are a little hard to talk about.
Who am I to rain on an entrepreneur’s idea? I am jealous that she was brave enough to go after a dream. (She probably learned that at camp too. She went to another one camp in FJC’s network, Camp Galil). I am always tempted to sign up for subscription commerce – I love new stuff and can be as lazy as the next person. If two days go by and I don’t order from Amazon Prime, Jeff Bezos himself delivers chicken soup to my door. But in this case, I’ll wear a red badge of courage on my sleeve. I learned how at camp. I’ll see you in the feminine hygiene aisle.
I had a lot of dreams and goals for my kids when I sent them to camp. They are both so comfortable in their own skin, I wanted a place that would continue to make them feel like that when they were in the middle of mean girl/middle school stuff. I wanted them to have those friendships that ran so deep, you can barely stand to be apart from each other. I wanted them to read by flashlight, not care when their feet touched the bottom of the lake, feel like I did when they celebrated Shabbat under the trees.
I wanted them to be part of a community that was their own (living in the same town and going to the same temple where their father and I grew up … I am imagining it can get a little old). Learn how to make decisions and deal with the consequences when I am not there to help put the pieces back together. One thing I never thought about was how their relationship as sisters would grow.
Over the past three summers, they have embarked on the incredible journey of camp and as my younger daughter has joined my older daughter, I have seen an incredible level of friendship and sisterhood develop between the two. Camp strengthening their relationship just wasn’t on my neat little check-off list of things to talk to a camp director about. Yet, it has been an incredible thing to watch.
I have been very careful not to tell my older daughter to check-up on her sister, especially the first year or so. I hadn’t wanted to put the pressure on her or make her responsible for her sister’s good time. They are very close at home. Not telling secrets in the dark (though I think that will come), but happy to cheer each other on at softball and soccer games, be each other’s favorite playmate and genuinely miss each other when they spend the day apart. I mean, it isn’t all rainbows and unicorns, they’ve got the fighting over clothes thing down pretty well and one is always making the other late for school. Though when I glanced at their camp cubbies, it was hard to tell who’s was who’s – even though they are a few bunks apart – the clothes seemed to be shared much happier here.
This is the first year they are both at camp for seven weeks so I was a little worried how we were going to give both of them the proper individual attention they needed at visiting day. Worry not necessary. They had sat together and planned the day for us – they even had a rain plan (which included lots of ice cream of course). They knew all about each other’s visits to the infirmary and bug bite care. The counselors told us how they check up on each other at every meal. As we were getting ready to leave visiting day, my nine-year-old had a mini-melt down – not ready to see the day end. As I comforted one, I overheard her big sister making a plan with the counselor so she could come put her to bed later that night.
I am excited for their return and to see the closeness that has developed over another three weeks. No one will understand the post-camp funk better than a real sister experiencing the same thing. They’ll come home speaking almost a different language filled with secret jokes and song lyrics. Last year, I almost felt like a stranger in my own home after they returned. Good thing I will have trunks full of laundry to keep me busy!
Throughout the school year, my daughter’s Instagram feed is filled with posts from friends – “#campzipcode is my home,” “100 days until I’m HOME” and “meet me at HOME #campzipcode.” And it makes sense – as a parent, you probably spent hours picking out the perfect camp for your family. You talked to the directors and other families and probably most importantly, made sure the camp values matched that of your own. Camp is a place where we send our children to build their identity, create memories and friendships. When I see these posts and hear that my kids feel that camp is their second home, it is almost like they are giving me a blue ribbon that says “Job well done, Mom, you picked the right place for me!”
There has been a lot of camp talk in the media lately that, honestly, makes me cringe and want to look away. Recently the NY Times ran a piece about care packages and of course, there’s that piece about visiting day whose name I can’t even bring myself to type.
If kids see camp as their second home, why can’t we – as parents – respect that and not try to undo what camps try so hard to create? Why do visiting day and care packages become a way to outdo each other? Why do we feel the need to break all the rules, and win our kids love with the biggest candy tower? Are these the values we are looking to instill in our children – score more goals than the kid next to you, I hope you get more turns on the pottery wheel and your clay bowls are bigger than the kid in the bunk above you?
If another kid came into our home and behaved the way we do when it comes to camp – I can only imagine what would ensue. We have all asked our children not to bring ‘that kid’ home after school. In my house – like most homes – we set rules and expect our children and their friends to abide by them. We don’t have many rules (I am on the verge of teenagers so I am sure they are coming) – be kind, be inclusive, be honest, don’t eat chocolate on the couch, get your homework done before Oovoo-ing with your friends… Yet, when a camp sets similar reasonable rules we set the example for our children by hollowing out deodorant bottles as a hiding place for candy. OMG – there is a gummy bear emergency in Bunk Aleph! Think about the position you are putting your child in when they find the hidden candy or even worse, a hidden cellphone in a sock. They need to “hide the contraband” from the counselors they are supposed to respect and look up to and ask their friends to keep secrets.
We will never stop running towards our kids on visiting day. When we scope out places for our tents and blankets on Visiting Day do we put cracks in the community that our children created? Do we need to cover their beds in candy towers, Rice Krispie ice cream cones and dozens of Sprinkles cupcakes? At camp we encourage kids to discover new parts to themselves and make new connections. Why can’t that apply to their relationship with their parents too? It need not be about the loot. The kids just want us. Our full attention – so they can show off their favorite places in camp, introduce us to 200 of their new best friends and tell the stories that make this magical place of camp, their second home.
When parents hide cellphones in socks and balloons in between the pages of magazines trying to get around the flat care package only rule, they are taking the staff (remember the staff – you asked a million questions on how they are trained, where they come from etc) away from doing what they are supposed to be doing – creating a community, facilitating learning, cheering on your child as they accomplish something new.
This is their other home, and the camp directors set the rules – we expect the kids to follow all the ones at camp, not just the ones they like, right? Like at home, the rules are there to keep them safe and happy. Camps directors spend hours analyzing camper photographers, deciding if they should allow packages or determining how to communicate with parents. The sooner we learn to respect those rules and decisions, the sooner we can expect to enjoy some of the magic from our campers summer homes to seep into our own.