"HOMECAMPING", The Mother Is Me, 1999

My five-year-old son graduated from preschool this past spring. There was a ceremony called "Moving On Day" at which each child talked about himself, described something special to him from the school year, and then sang a solo. The songs were recorded earlier so there would be no “deer in headlights” at show time. Each child stood up and faced the audience as his singing was played. My son was dressed in his favorite construction equipment t-shirt to illustrate the part of his speech in which he talked about how much he wanted to drive trucks when he grew up. We also all listened to his beautiful, clear rendition of “This Pretty Planet,” which goes something like: “This pretty planet, spinning through space, your garden, your harvest, your holy place…”

I was, of course, overwhelmed. But there was something else about this moment that vividly showed my son's personality to the weepy assembled parents. Just before it was my son’s turn, the child next to him had illustrated his own song with a wide side-armed gesture that bumped Luca in the head. Neither I nor most of the audience saw the accident, but what we did see was my son stand up and stare out at us with a face full of anger and contempt. He sneered. He rolled his eyes. He exhaled with a strong “humph.” The kid was pissed.

In the weeks leading up to the graduation, Luca had been acting out in a big way. Every morning was a trial getting him dressed and off to school. I fended off excuse after excuse about why he should stay home. He had a tantrum. I had a tantrum. Then I would stuff him into his clothes (the ones he picked after my first three choices were rejected) and drag him to the car. He would calm down on the way to school and once we arrived he trotted off fairly happily into his room.

As during so many phases in the life of this strong-willed child, I felt confused and isolated. However, I did notice that the 9:15 (therefore late) crowd of parents was getting bigger and bigger. Finally, we parents made our private rumblings public and started meeting at the gate to bitch about our suddenly impossible children. It was a great relief. It made the last weeks much easier for me knowing that all the kids had transformed into monsters and my theory - that unresolved feeling about leaving preschool had resulted in my child's efforts to exercise control by behaving in an obnoxious controlling manner - now had a sample group.

After the Moving On ceremony, there was a picnic that we all tried to keep light-hearted. All of these kids were headed off to different kindergartens and all in their own ways expressed anxiety about that. Luca had begun telling people that he was going to be homeschooled. Unfortunately, this was not true. He was registered for a great Quaker school we have every confidence he would love. But he continued to tell stories about all the things he was doing after preschool graduation, most of which were fantasy.

Since my half-day preschool boy would be going into full-day kindergarten (the only kind we have in these parts), it made sense to me that he should go to full-day camp. I searched for one I thought was really cool with lush rural grounds and a reputation for a progressive curriculum. Everything seemed right and sensible. A week and a half after my son glared at his graduation audience with seething contempt, I was bringing him into his new camp classroom, introducing him to his counselor, and watching him make his first new friend. As he and the other little boy burrowed into the cars and blocks, making intricate highway systems, I asked him if it was okay for me to leave and he waved goodbye. I missed him all day and when I went to pick him up, he seemed fine.The counselor said he had cried a bit in the middle of the day but he had tales of catching frogs and swimming in the pool. A little later he told me that some kids had stepped on the back of his swim shoes while they were walking to the pool. When I told him I was sure it was an accident, he insisted it was done on purpose.

This was the beginning of what would be two weeks of hell. Luca came home with a new story each day about something that had happened - innocuous things really; some insults, some teasing. An activity that was too hard. Every moment he was not at camp, he tried to convince me that he should not have to go to camp. He wanted to be a “homecamper” and then in the fall, a “homeschooler.” His father and I tried desperately to interpret all of Luca's behavior as difficulty adjusting to a new environment, a new schedule, and longer hours. I started picking him up early, making him an ad hoc half-day kid. He was grateful, but not really any happier. When I picked him up he seemed contentedly involved in some activity with a friend. Not a bit of weeping or some insecure clutching.

Dropping him off was another matter. He screamed as if he were being hacked with a cleaver. In retrospect I wonder how I ever left him that way, but I was afraid I was not giving him enough time to adjust to a new situation. Even the day that he tore at my flesh as I handed him to his counselor and, heading for the car while controlling my own tears, I turned back to see that he had knocked his counselor to the ground and was still screaming for me to come back as the entire camp watched. I was filled with self-doubt from day one of camp, wondering every second of the walk to the car whether I should do what I wanted to do and run back for him.

My first born son spent a total of 8 days in camp this summer. Each day he came home with a story about some seemingly small incident and the next day I would ask his counselor about it. She would say that she hadn't seen it and would never tolerate that kind of behavior in her group. Perhaps it happened once, she told me, but it would not have been ongoing, as Luca claimed, or she would have noticed and put a stop to it. Luca was never physically hurt but he was afraid of being away from me for a second.

It was two weeks after we pulled him out of camp when he elaborated on one accusation he had made – "They make fun of the way I talk." This one had seemed particularly strange since, while he has the slight lisp of most kids his age, his speech is very clear and his vocabulary wide and varied. I was curled up in bed with him and asked whether he had meant that they made fun of the way he spoke his words. No, he told me, they made fun of the things he said. My brilliant, curious, articulate son had been teased for having too much to say and saying it in detail other kids his age cannot always understand.

The end of my tale is that my son and I are on a journey together to a place where he will feel safe enough to tell me more details about the taunting he suffered at that camp or perhaps I will never know because it is better for him to put it all behind him. As an attachment parenting mother much in love with an often difficult child, I am racked with guilt and anger. Of the thousand decisions a stay-at-home mother makes every day about the well-being of her children, did I blow this one? And if I did, how could I have known? What are the criteria I should apply next time? And most importantly, how much and for how long will my son suffer as a result of my pulling him out of camp on day 8 instead of day 3 or day 5? I will never be sure of the answers to any of these questions, though they will haunt me for some time to come.