The World Got Bigger

For twelve days, I fretted over my daughter’s first summer camp experience. I couldn’t help it; I felt a minor panic the whole time she was away. During the time she was at camp, I went on a trip with my mom and sister. We had an incredible trip, but there was this constant underlying knowledge that my daughter was not at home. Neither was I, to be clear. But there was something about knowing she wasn’t where she was always supposed to be that just left me unnerved.

“She’s fine,” my mother kept reminding me. I would assure her that I really wasn’t worried about her. And I really wasn’t. This kid was made for summer camp. She thrives in structure and with lots of fun activities; she likes making new friends so long as the culture is an inclusive and kind one; and she loves arts and crafts and singing and small adventures. I was never worried about her wellbeing. When I would stop to think about her, I would imagine her having fun, smiling. I knew if anything were wrong, I would get a call right away.

I couldn't see her

Still, she wasn’t home. When she’s at home or school or karate, I know what’s she’s doing almost every minute. I am always anxious when I don’t know what my children are doing. One of the reasons I hate going to the park with them these days is because it’s so hard to watch them both. They take off in different directions, fascinated by different things, climbing all over everything. And while I’m thrilled that they’re adventurous, I hate not being able to see both of them every second. And it’s impossible of course. How could I see both of my children at every second? But, unless it is so, my heart is pounding.

It’s been that way since the beginning with them. I can remember when my daughter was first born, my anxiety would increase when she wasn’t with me. In those first few precious days of her life, amid my exhaustion and hormones and everything else, the worst thing anyone could do was to take the baby from me. And all they wanted to do was hold the baby. They kept telling me to go lay down. But I could not rest with her apart from me. She had been inside of me for nine months and I wasn’t ready to be separated just yet.

Parents' separation anxiety

This separation anxiety of mine mystified most people around me. I can remember a moment in our little one bedroom apartment after my daughter was born, when I whisper-yelled at my husband, “Go get my baby!” because too many relatives had been holding her and I hadn’t had her in my arm for what seemed like most of the day (it had probably been about 20 minutes).

And when my son was born, we were instructed to “try to get some sleep.” So I lay in the hospital bed next to his little acrylic bucket and stared at him, heart pounding, sitting on my hands so that I wouldn’t reach out and grab him. It took me a couple of hours (yes hours) to realize that it didn’t really matter what terrible advice the nurses gave, I was the mom and could pick up my baby whenever I wanted. I fell asleep shortly after we were both situated safely in bed together.

So, after all this attachment and paying close attention to where each child is at every second, it was all too overwhelming to know that she just wasn’t where I could know anything about what she was doing, when or where. I wasn’t worried about her well being, just like I didn’t worry when other family members held her as an infant. But I wanted her in my arms not theirs. I wanted her in my house, not theirs.

Separation builds strength

After the twelve-day intro session, we drove up to camp to get her. I worried that she would be disappointed to see me, upset that we hadn’t signed up her up for the full-length session. But, she was just as excited to see me as I was to see her. She grinned from ear to ear and hugged me tight. The entire trip home, she told us stories from camp. Songs and riddles she learned. New friends she made. Games she played. New things she tried.

She was proud to tell us that she had tried chocolate ice cream even though she usually insists that she hates chocolate. “And??” My husband and I asked eagerly. “It was still disgusting,” she reported. “But I tried!” she concluded proudly. And we were proud.

That night, after unloading her thousands of items from bags, hauling mounds of laundry to the basement, organizing all the bits and pieces, it was time for her to climb into her own bed in her own room. The relief between both of us was palpable. I was so happy she was in her own bed. And she was clearly so happy to be in her own bed. We talked a little as she was settling down. And then she looked around the room and said, “Mom?” with big curious eyes.

“Yes?”

“Why does everything look smaller?”

I let out a huge breath and sucked back some tears. I remembered that exact feeling from my childhood. When everything familiar suddenly looked different. It was disconcerting and exciting all at once. It was a feeling of just being “off” in your own space. It would take some time to adjust.

“Because,” I said to her after swallowing the tears back. “Your world got bigger.”

And mine did too.