Biter

Did you start laughing the moment you read the title of this blog post? It's not funny.

It's not funny when your son is either so impressed or pained by his new teeth that he bites anything within an inch of his mouth. The spoon or finger you are feeding him with. The fleshy part of your thigh as he pulls up on your leg. The arm of another child who happened to reach past Milo's face (this generated an "incident report" at school). After he bites you/something, he grins as though to say "The world is so DELICIOUS."

It's not funny.

Naughty

Milo is learning to be bad and mad. He crawls around trawling for the tiny, the sharp, the swallowable. When he finds it — which he always does, because all of Lucy's favorites playthings are tiny, sharp, and swallowable — he will show it to you triumphantly, put it in his mouth, then motor away. Today I fished a dime out of his maw and he screamed furiously. I told him what a bad baby he was and then smooched his neck till he laughed and laughed. Some scolding. But he really is pretty naughty.

Happy Camper

We picked her up from camp on Friday afternoon, and when I first saw her, she glowed. Not with happiness to see us, but with news and stories and songs to share. She was bubbling over. Turns out, she is good at camp. The way one is good at a sport or a hobby. I was, too. In fact, it was one of the first things I felt really good at in my life, so I was thrilled to discover she has a similar talent.

Camp is a place where you leave real life behind and make a new kid-run society, one that, for the most part, prizes qualities like enthusiasm, cooperation, curiosity, adaptability, kindness and silliness. You (not your parents or your background) define yourself. Emotional bonds and experiences are distilled so that one week feels like three months. Camp memories and friendships endure. My words fail me here, but if you're a camper, you know.

And now she's a camper. Liz said, "Kate, she's a Rocky River girl." Indeed.

Overheard

(via Liz) Lucy, trying to bully/negotiate class changes: "NO ONE is knitting." Willow, to her credit, held firm and did knitting. Lucy said it was okay if they weren't in all their classes together, because, you know, they're cousins and see each other a lot.

Willow, after the counselor in the Red Wagon asked if anyone knew what a "caper" was (caper is camp speak for chore):"I know! It's kind of like a little pickle." Which, well, it is.

Lucy, to Liz today three times in a row: "This is the best place in the whole world." Which, well, it is.

Your Story Starts Here

I made her bed in the Red Wagon. I put the framed photos of us on the shelves. I applied the last bit of sunscreen to her already too-tanned self. I gave her a laminated Kissing Hand to remind her of me. I gave her the last hug/kiss/high-five of the week. I left her in the care of dear Liz and the best organization I know of for bringing up amazing girls. And I did all this without crying. Until I went to Circle B, the first cabin I stayed in at Rocky River. The cabin is amazingly redone and different — Liz said she wanted it to be like Pippy Longstocking's house, and it's a pretty fantasy of uneven shingles and cedar siding and sideways bunks. Yet somehow it's even more like itself. Over the fireplace library in Circle B Down, Liz made fabric confection that is embroidered "Your story starts here."

That's when I started crying. Because Lucy's story does start here. At least, the one she writes for herself.

P.S. She's a Cowpoke.

Amateur Hour

Tomorrow is Lu's first day of Camp. Capital C camp, Rocky River Ranch, sacred space, most formative place of my youth. You know, no big. She is excited and nervous. I am excited and nervous. We acted out the little melodrama of our shared nerves over another vigorous argument about whether or not vampires are real (damn you, Twilight and your hold on the zeitgeist).

She is asleep with a head of garlic under her pillow. As I gave it to her, I said, "Vampires are just in stories, and as we've discussed, they are not real. But people in stories with vampires think garlic keeps them away, so if it helps you use your imagination to feel better, then here's some garlic." Oh, and I climbed onto her bed (breaking the weight limit by about 80 pounds) to lie with her for a while (breaking every bedtime rule we've ever had).

Amateur hour. That's what Sugawa calls it when I show my weakness as a parent. So be it. When you are packing a suitcase for your child that SHE COULD FIT IN HERSELF, you are struck by her tininess, her unreadiness to go have a five-day-long life experience apart from the person who pushed her into being. And you are willing to sink below the pro-am level to soothe her the night before this happens.

I have had some pretty frantic correspondence with Liz, who always makes me feel better, and is the only person who can rescue my tiny girl from vampires, floods, homesickness and other scary stuff at camp. It's going to be okay, I think.

Adult Supervision Part 2

Thirty seven doesn't sound as old to me as it used to. Yet it is a decidedly adult age. This birthday has brought a new awareness that people more less my age are running things, with no adult supervision. The president is a mere 12 years older than I am. Barack Obama is barely old enough to have been my babysitter? And he runs the country?

The founders of Google are a year younger than me. And they pretty much run everything else.

Again, trying not to panic.

Adult Supervision, Part 1

I spent my birthday weekend at the Cleaves compound in Wimberley. On Saturday, we attended splendid Major family reunion put on by Peggy, probably the first time in 25 years all those Majors have gathered in one place. We lost the last of a generation when Aunt Patricia died in the spring, so it was amazing to see so many cousins together. On Sunday, we had a quiet day at the creek. The only real excitement was when Ted seemed close to setting his arm on fire while cooking steaks over open flames, and Willow wailed over being separated from Lucy for the week before they go to camp. As the day wound down, Peggy and Ted left with Willow, leaving only our generation to cook, clean, organize and generally fend for ourselves (with help from Bonnie, a blessed token from the grandparent set).

My cousin Lauren made us dinner, while I half-helped but mostly just chatted and drank wine. Lauren: a cousin whom I hadn't seen in 20 years and last remembered as dark-haired cherub. She's now the mother of a dark-haired cherub of her own. I leaned against the pantry for a moment watching this girl-woman stir her gourmet chili, while David made an elaborate salad of his own garden tomatoes. It hit me: she is an adult, he is an adult, I am an adult. We are the grown-ups.

I decided not to panic.