It is almost the end of day four at camp. I haven't received a letter yet or had a chance to talk to you and I am dying to hear all about your experiences: the good and the bad, the scary and the exciting.
In the meantime, I am a stereotype. I am desperate to know that you are more than okay, that you are happy so I do what all mothers who send their kids to sleep away camp do, I refresh. I am on the camp website numerous times a day to see are there new photos of you. Can I catch a glimpse of an arm or a leg - "those are definitely her shoes!" - among a group of kids? The crown jewel, a photo of you smiling with your arm slung around a buddy's shoulder? Camp is a gift, but it is not a gift that is for everyone and as it is Avery's first summer going away this year, I refresh.
I try to give it time to be patient. But it is hard, especially since no one needs to know just how often I am checking, how often I refresh.
I refresh on my phone when I wake up in the morning. I refresh when I get to work and I turn on my computer. I refresh when I need a break from writing an email or a presentation. I refresh.
I love you both so much. I miss you. My heart hurts with missing you. I'm not allowed to write that in a letter that I mail to you at camp, because I want you to be happy. But years from now if you read this, please know that not a minute goes by when you are away that I am not missing you.