Sleeping away

Henry went to sleepaway camp for the first time last year. He was gone for two weeks, and let me tell you, those two weeks were a giddy thrill ride of unbearable anxiety and mild to moderate fretting/longing. I missed my kid so much it physically hurt, and although Scott and I enjoyed going out and having grown-up fun (not a euphemism) with fellow adults (friends! platonic friends!), it almost didn't make up for all the discomfort. It was often painful, and I considered whether I needed daily therapy, or an hourly meditation practice, or for someone to come along and bop me on the head with a mallet.

Part of the anxiety was due to the fact that Henry promised and swore he'd write and then we did not receive any correspondence until, oh, the day before we picked him up. While I told myself his radio silence was due to his extreme fun-having, and if anything had gone wrong surely the camp would let us know, the nonrational side of me was shrieking, "Call the camp! He wandered into the woods and no one noticed! He's going to be raised by raccoons and even when you find him he will speak Raccoon Talk and he'll have imprinted on his new Raccoon Mother! His new name will be known only to his fellow raccoons! It will be Chrrrhrrfrrrr! But you'll never pronounce it correctly! Where was I going with this!"

Then we got a letter from him, and it was happy and carefree. I was then able to enjoy the last 24 or so hours before we picked him up, and boy, did I make that time count! (I don't think I really did. I can't recall.)

The point of this is that he had a great time, the greatest time of his life ever, and he's spent the year longing for the carefree days of camp. Which made sending him this year a much easier decision, and a far less painful experience for us. We decided to send him this year for a month, mostly because 1) his best friend was also going for a month, and 2) who wants to be in Brooklyn in the dead of summer, when the world smells like garbage? I know I'd rather not be here.

This weekend was Visiting Day (which the one-month campers have after two weeks), and we were dying to get our hands on our (probably) grubby camper. He gave us a tour of the place, and we took him out for lunch and dessert. And then ice cream. And then we tried to get him a toy at the toy store, but all he wanted was a rock. A polished rock, but still. Kid's gone native. I shouted "DON'T BE A RACCOON" but he just stared at me. He's already forgetting our human language!

He's got another two weeks. It's pretty great, knowing what a good time he's having, out there in the woods. But we miss him, you know, a little.

After the sleepover

We let Henry have a handful of friends sleep over for his birthday, and was that ever a poor decision. This weekend we discovered that for nine-year-old boys, "sleepover" is code for "Hey, let's fling our bodies against each other and then lob ourselves against the walls as if we were human beanbags!" I am amazed that no furniture or spines were broken. How are there not head-sized holes in the walls? And when did my child learn to construct a human catapult?

Because of this apartment living that we chose, there was no escape from the sleepover bedlam. From the screaming and the screaming oh sweet baby Jesus the screaming. Actually it was more of a scream/laugh medley. Scraughter. It is not fun to listen to, even before you're sleep-deprived. Did you know that kids scream like they're being murdered and that this means "Golly, we are just having the funnest time!"? Can you make sense of this? Of course you can't, because you're a reasonable human and not a maniacal child-thing. When given the opportunity to play a nice quiet game of chess or sit silently and think about all they're thankful for, the entire party instead opted to engage repeatedly in something called a "dogpile." I ask you.

We've hosted sleepovers before, but even last year, the guests (and the birthday boy) were younger and more pliable. Our friends thought we were insane when we let five- and six-year-old sleep over, but I'm telling you, that's when you want them. They're easily entertained. They might smell a little funny, sure, but their combined funk does not knock you over when you enter a room. They're so thrilled with the novelty of the event that they'll fall asleep simply from excitement. Whereas once they're nine, they're all gangly and their limbs can and will knock over fragile lamps and also they're brimming with weird nine-year-old emotions. One kid kept tearfully announcing himself "on strike" because he didn't like the choice of activities. Another kid volunteered to help me out, and then did so by bonking the first kid about the head and back with a foam sword and then tossing his shoes down the stairwell. I really. I mean. Have you ever.

At any rate, let the word go forth that I will forever remain reluctant to agree to any kind of sleep- or slumber-themed event, unless the children prove themselves to be mute and/or exceptionally subdued, or our conditions change so dramatically that our squad of governesses can entertain and monitor the guests while we decamp for our country estate. I am sure that my stance will not change a little bit, even when I've completely forgotten how much my head hurt for days afterward, and the day arrives that Henry asks us really nicely. Not even then.

NINE

Today we pause to venerate our Henry, who is officially NINE YEARS OLD. What in the huh? I have no idea how this could have happened. He assured me he would stop growing up, and yet. Yet HERE WE ARE. With most of his pants ending at mid-calf, like he's a Park Slope mom rocking the cargo capris.

Here's a recent picture of him.

Please put a shirt on, dear.

Henry is a little excited about his birthday. And he should be. I didn't think I could possibly fit any more Legos into our home, but (spoiler alert) by the end of this evening, his room will be awash in shiny new pieces. At least he's now keeping them to his room. Because he knows that if they end up anywhere else Mr. Vacuum Cleaner will gobble them up! Gobble gobble gobble!

(I do not actually talk that way about my vacuum. Besides, his name is Derek.)

Also, he will soon be enjoying a new set of Magic: The Gathering: The Card Game: Which I Can't Stand Cards. He really really REALLY wants me to learn how to play Magic and seriously nothing makes me crankier than that game. That game requires math, and I am 100% sure he is making up rules that will lead to him winning. This is fine with me, as long as it means he wins quickly, which he never ever does. I am always on the verge of losing/being destroyed when suddenly he's handing me a +9 life potion card or some shit. He tries to be an encouraging and patient coach but the whole thing makes my brain twitch. Can we just play more Uno, Henry? You know how Mama loves her the Uno.

Henry's birthday this year, like so many other years, has turned into a multi-day and multi-dessert celebration. Of course I had to bring brownies for his class, because they haven't had a birthday in their class since, oh, NEVER, THERE ARE ALWAYS BIRTHDAYS, and in fact today Henry is one of two birthday boys in the class, and the other kid is also bringing brownies. And yet I have to bake as well. I used to go for quality, but I have since wised up, and I used a mix. Suckers!

Tonight, we celebrate with The Family, and so I made a cake from this cookbook, which is an amazing cookbook for those of you who are aspiring Paleo types, are gluten-free, or just have some almond flour on hand (?).  I made it once before in sheet-cake form, and you couldn't tell that it was any different from a regular cake. Today I'm going for a layer cake for the first time since the layer cake debacle of 2005. My sister Liz came over yesterday to talk me through it. So far, so good. I haven't done the frosting yet, though. I might need to take an Ativan first.

Tomorrow we're hosting a sleepover with three other boys, and for that we ordered an ice cream cake, because if there's one thing that kids don't seem to appreciate all that much (or at least enough for my liking), it's a homemade cake. (The last time I watched them all lick the frosting off of their cupcakes and walk away, and then I wept in the bathroom. I get a little overwrought when it comes to baking.) Then the kids will watch Pirates of the Caribbean and refuse to sleep and we will tell them how unamused they are by their antics! In stern parental voices!

Oh and then on Sunday we get to go to ANOTHER kid's birthday party. Seriously, what is it with all these kids and their birthdays? We get it: you were born. NEWS FLASH SO WAS EVERYONE ELSE. EEUGH.

I'm not "eeugh"ing at you, Henry. You I like.

Back to school

What! Hello! Where?

So much has happened, since last we spoke. My cat lost fifteen more pounds! But then she gained sixteen back. I think the loss was water weight. Okay, but really, school began! Oh, school! How I've missed you. How my child did not at all miss you.

I have to say, I was never a huge fan of school, but I always greeted the new year with excitement. Every time fall came around, I knew in my heart that everything would be different. I fooled mysef from 1976 straight through to 1987. I had finally figured what clothes looked cool! I would crack up the entire class with the hilarious and cutting-edge Eddie Murphy routines I learned at summer camp! Oh, ho! Within weeks I was forced to my senses, when it turned out that I had gotten the clothes completely wrong and no one was impressed with my boy's Lee jeans, nor did my funny bits win over any of the popular kids, all of whom had their own inside jokes which they had developed together over their fun-filled private-beach summers, while I sat inside playing Intellivision and watching reruns of the Odd Couple.

My child has no enthusiasm for school, not even the short-lived kind. He thinks it is a bucket of nonsense, and is not shy about telling me or anyone else who will listen. And yet! And yet he appears, at least, to maneuver expertly through the day, collecting all kinds of peers who want desperately to be his friend, winning over the hearts and minds of all of his teachers, and clearly acing every subject. At school pickup he waves goodbye to his adoring classmates with a smile, and then he turns to me and announces that once again he has been subjected to another terrible, soul-crushing day.

His teachers assure me every year that he participates enthusiastically (when I tell him this, he insists that he's "only being polite") and I don't doubt that he's worn out at the end of the day and that can account for the low mood. Plus school just began last Thursday, and I fully expected the transition to be rocky. But still, I have to admit, I heard great things about his new teacher, and I did expect him to come home after the first couple of days with at least some kind of grudging acceptance. But no. And the attitude does get to me. I fret! When your child says things like "I hate learning" and "school is for idiots," one grows concerned that this attitude might blossom and flourish and over the adolescent years, when the challenges become more complicated and the pressures start mounting, said child might simply give up and turn to a life of crime. Yes, I go right from "my child is not enthusiastic about third grade" to "my child will be a career criminal because I have failed him." And I wonder why I can't sleep at night.

Also, how lame is it to counter "I hate learning" with "but learning is so much fun!" This is the kind of chirpy response I will myself not to say but then I say anyway. I worry if he rolls his eyes any harder he's going to damage his eyeballs. I don't need eyeball damage added to my litany of concerns. Plus if he's got these eyes that just roll uncontrollably around in his head, he's going to easily be picked out of any lineup, and that's a risk I don't want to take.

What do you think? Is this a phase? Should I continue to ignore it? And yes, this is me asking for advice, and yes, I am bracing myself. Aaaaand go.