The evolution of a baby's smile:
"Enough with the effin' camera, Auntie."
I used to get tearful at the end of summer camp. For a few summers I went to a week-long Episcopal camp which I only recently learned was in RI, though it seemed countries away from home. (The reason I, the child of a Catholic mother and Jewish father, attended Episcopal summer camp has its roots in the deepest conviction held by any 8-year old; my best friend was doing it.)
It was not scary church camp. It was cozy cabin, bunk beds, singing by the fire, crush on the boys (and counselor...always with the older men) camp.
So I would get a little sentimental at the week's end, knowing that all the fun, adventure, growth and friendship that happened over the week, its joy-filled potency, would dissipate as I returned home; returned to school; returned to a more typical life.
And I could never quite explain why I loved it so much or what went on there (I'll save for another entry the weird stuff of the emotionally scarring showering situation and the lice checks) but I just knew something special had occurred.
I also felt this after school plays---and all the long rehearsals leading up to them---were over. Someone else may have felt this after a grueling college semester shared with friends or a hard summer working at an under-staffed restaurant. I imagine this feeling is what they try to accomplish with companies at Outward Bound events. It's something like camaraderie born from a shared challenge and the endurance, strength and perseverance it requires. (Plus the humor: I'm still laughing about Katie and I singing every Christmas song we know---school chorus style---in an effort to keep Savvy sleeping in the car.)
The sadness comes from experiencing something richer than what everyday life can sometimes offer and knowing that it only existed in that time and that it can't be clung to nor replicated.
This is what I am feeling now, having just returned from a week spent with Katie and Savannah in Ohio.
Something happened there between my sister and me. After Gary left (and I'm grateful to have been able to spend a couple of fantastic getting-to-know-you days with him before his trip), Katie and I were in it together. It was fulfilling and trying (and
tiring) and a most enriching experience.
But I can't tell you exactly how we spent our days. We both kept saying that it felt like some sort of warp zone we were living in. The world outside was bright and sunny and we existed elsewhere. Time passed slowly but days passed quickly; a cycle of nursing, burping, cooing at and talking to; rocking, walking, putting down; watching and cursing the monitor (same size as the walkie-talkie type but with a little screen on it)when Savvy stirred prematurely; cups of tea and coffee; disjointed hours of deep conversation strung between spit-up, blow-outs and diaper changes; daily laundry and not-so-daily showering; 10pm dinners and 3am feedings; breakfasts---Savvy's, then ours--- which sometime started at or lasted until noon. 2pm in the real world and our 2pm were different things, I'd think, looking down at my pajamas.
Whenever we could, we talked and talked. On the porch rocking Savvy in one of our laps; during evening walks when we'd take turn holding the cute 18-pounder because she doesn't much care for the stroller; over morning coffee for two found hours at the kitchen table; during those 3am feedings if either of us could keep our eyes open.
The conversations were of the richest stuff, jewels of female interaction. Marriage (mine with Dan, Katie's first marriage and her current engagement), children (how her life is already so changed plus a round of should I or shouldn't I?), spirituality, the science of the brain, finance, nutrition (will Katie go all organic for Savvy and will that contradict financial goals?), values (how do you teach a kid to be respectful while also empowering them to question authority?), and about many other topics (you know what I'm saying) that I am lucky enough to have a sister (or four) with whom I feel comfortable talking.
And there were also those talks that went unfinished. Savannah would wake up or we wanted to capitalize on a shower window or, gasp, eat lunch, and some intense sentence would hang there. We'll get back to that, we'd say. Some things we managed to return to, other conversations may never be finished.
Katie and I are never at a loss for words. (We once engaged in a 12-hour phone call when both our men were away, taking each other via the phone to do laundry, grocery shopping, and other various activities as an entire day passed.) However, the circumstances which allowed for the depths we reached during this past week's journey (lack of sleep, isolation, stir-craziness, hormones, hunger and the bliss that came from my introduction to the new love of Katie's life---and mine---in Savannah), cannot be recreated.
We will have other moments to treasure, experiences we can't yet know or even imagine, but this one is over. There will never again be that week I spent helping Katie care for her 10-week-old first child.
And I'm sad about it. I have the summer camp feeling.
It already seems so far away as I weave back into the roads of normal life. Molly's back at school and I am schlepping her to dance and gymnastics in the afternoons again (she turned seven on Monday---wasn't I just rocking that kid to sleep, too?), my writing projects are fueling my angst as always, chores are undone (I haven't bitched about this to his face, but Dan did not do
one load of laundry while I was away all week), and a new crop of worries have surfaced that I didn't see coming.
Yes, summer camp is over.
My last night in Ohio was spent in and out of tears. Sunday night I went to the grocery store to stock Katie's fridge since she wasn't sure when Gary would be home, and I couldn't even hold it together there. (The Peter Cetera and depressing Sunday-night-in-a-grocery-store feeling didn't help.) I kept thinking of whether Savannah would still be awake when I got home---would I get to hold her and talk to her one more time?---and crying as I tossed Sponge Bob Macaroni & Cheese boxes (not quite an organic diet yet) into the cart.
Katie texted me while I was there to say that she was also crying as she tried to replicate my latch hook panda bear act that I sometimes utilized to distract Savvy during labor-intensive diaper changes.
I wish they lived closer. Most of the time they live in Memphis, but Gary has a second home in Ohio where his older daughter lives. After a horrid drive (see: screaming baby) from Tennessee to Ohio for what was supposed to be a 10-day visit, they have decided to stay put for a while. Gary, a pilot, is able to work and catch planes to wherever he needs to fly from Ohio. My trip out there was planned quickly so I could be there for his first long trip away from home since Savvy's birth. Katie loves Gary so that more than makes up for the absences from home that his job necessitates, but from the outside looking in, it seems difficult.
Maybe it's just because I'm her sister and I worry.
They're hoping to come for an east coast visit this fall. I hope it happens. I tried every trick in the book to get her to fly back with me since Gary's arrival home was still an unknown, but she couldn't do it. Too many responsibilities, too many loose ends to tie up, too fast. (Plus, Gary's home now.)
I should have known it would never work.
Much as you want to, you can never bring summer camp home with you.
I'll write you every day, I promise!
you too...
