Letters from Camp, Part Two

Earlier this week, I complained about having never gone to sleepaway camp. (Complained? Exulted more like it.) But, my sister, brother and I did go to daycamp several summers in a row. 

The only one that really stays with me was the summer before I started sixth grade. Even though we were practically teenagers (no one had coined the word "tween" yet in 1973), they made us take a nap each afternoon. There were these scrawny little mats and after lunch the counselor would turn off the light so we could sleep. Of course, none of us did sleep. So, instead, she read aloud from Judy Blume's adolescent classic Are You There God? It's Me Margaret.

We were fascinated! 

The whole getting-your-period thing seemed incredibly mysterious and grownup. The counselor (who, at nineteen, was also incredibly mysterious and grownup) had fun with it, taking us to the pharmacy around the corner and showing us pads and belts. She also warned us never to use a tampon or we wouldn't be virgins anymore. One of my fellow campers (a girl far more informed and precocious than I) asked the counselor if she herself was indeed a virgin. I don't know whether the older girl was caught off guard or just eager to share, but nap time became a lot more interesting after that.

My own daughter went to a number of daycamps over the years. She started when she was three years old, attending camp at her preschool (which was pretty much exactly like preschool but over the summer). Then she moved on to gymnastics camp at the local YMCA.

Soon, of course, she wanted to attend horseback riding daycamp, and she did so for a number of years. This was considerably more expensive than any other option, so those first summers we switched off — a week with the horses a week at the gym. (You can probably guess which weeks were her favorites.) Right before she entered middle school, she and a BFF went to "Adventure Camp," where they hiked, canoed and rock-climbed. 

It was all very ... well, adventurous.

Our daycamp days are behind us. In fact, these days, my daughter helps run a camp. But, the past few weeks have been a trip down daycamp memory lane for me. Each day when I arrive at the Y for Zumba or Dance Mania or Yoga, I'm confronted by tiny armies of campers. 

And not just any campers.

There are kids dressed as Harry Potter with his signature round glasses, striped scarves and magic wands. There are girls in long gauzy dresses and sequined crowns. There are older kids in lab coats with bright red "blood" stains.

The Y has really taken the concept of camp to new and exciting places. Why just go to "camp," when you can attend "Princess Training," "Treasure Hunting," "Hogwarts 101," "Superheroes," or "CSI: Forensics." Of course, there are plenty of fitness programs represented as well: "Sportsmania," "Soccer," "Dance" and "Making Waves." But, I love it that the Y has created camps for kids who may be more bookish, imaginative or just plain nerdy.

After the most grueling classes, I emerge sweaty but smiling. A quick look around the Y and one might think the inmates were running the asylum (maybe next year, they'll add a "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" theme). The kids are having a blast and isn't that what summer should be about?

The counselors (gamely dressed as evil queens, mad scientists or the faculty from Hogwarts) seem to be having fun too. At least as much fun as my old counselor did.

And hopefully they're not sharing quite as much.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
 

Real Women, Real Workouts

When I first moved to Boston back in 1985, I was religious about going to the gym. As soon as I landed my first "real job," as a copywriter for a major cable company, I joined a women's workout club. It was conveniently located halfway between my apartment and my office. Every single weekday morning (and many Saturdays too), I took aerobics. Those were the days when we wore suspender leotards, unitards with crop tops and even leg warmers. And, yes, there was some day-glow going down as well. At 7:15 every morning, we were there, determined to "make it burn."

The locker room presented a daily scene just as dated as the gym. After class, we showered and blow dried our hair (picture Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, pre-haircut). Most of us worked in offices nearby and we all wore those little skirt and jacket suits, some with silky bow ties, and walked out in white athletic shoes, changing into pumps once we got to work.

Yikes!

Fast forward some 30 years. These days, I belong to a local — and co-ed — YMCA. It's a wonderful facility, thanks mainly to donations from two extremely high net worth neighbors. There are about 60 group exercise classes to choose from every week. In a perfect world, I'd go to yoga Monday, Wednesday and Friday; and to Zumba Tuesday, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays.

Of course, it's not a perfect world.

Today, for example, we're having our second snowstorm in as many weeks. They're anticipating another 12 inches on top of the 28 we already have. Even if the Y were open (and I don't know that it is), I'm not driving in this. No how, no way.

Weather isn't the only impediment either. Between kids and clients and cars and conference calls, I often have conflicts that keep me from shaking my booty (or downward dogging, depending on the day). I figure that if I get there 4 times a week I'm doing pretty well.

I've also gotten over how I look while I'm there.

Some of the younger women must spend half their paychecks on workout wear. Lululemon yoga pants start at $88 and can run more than $100. (My teenage daughter once asked for a pair and I reminded her that she doesn't workout.) Myself, I'm perfectly happy in my Target specials, with an old tee shirt on top. And if I'm wearing a sports bra, no one's going to know about it but me. That tee shirt ain't coming off.

I do marvel at the, shall we say "firmer" bodies next to mine (especially in the jam-packed class on Saturday mornings). I wonder if they even know how remarkable they are. Or do they only see their nearly invisible flaws when they look in the mirror, like we all did? Regardless, I refuse to be intimidated. I'm not 23 anymore and let's just say there's more of me to love than there used to be. But, it isn't a competition. I'm there (when I'm actually there) for me.

That's why I love the TV commercial my BFF recently sent me. (She, btw, also remains a dedicated gym goer now that we're in our fifth fabulous decade.) The spot was created by Sports England to help women overcome "worries about being judged for being the wrong size, not fit enough and not skilled enough."

It's called "This Girl Can" and you can watch it here. 

My favorite line? "I jiggle therefore I am." Yep, pretty much the state of things. On this end. These days.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Daddy Daycare

I don't like it when men make stereotypical generalizations about women. "Women are too emotional." Or "Women can't drive." Or "Women in powerful positions are bitches." So, I hate to fall prey to the same kind of thinking where men are concerned. For this reason, I have resisted writing about a phenomenon I witness constantly. But, after what I saw yesterday, I can't hold it in any longer.

It seems to me that most men (notice, I said "most," not "all"), are completely oblivious when it comes to safeguarding the young children in their charge.

There's a reason why Hollywood and Madison Avenue have returned time and again to the humorous concept of "Daddy Daycare."

Before I begin in earnest, let me apologize to all the really wonderful fathers I know. I have dear friends who are stay-at-home dads, and know countless others who attempt to pick up the slack in two-income families. Yes, I know you try. Yes, you're doing your best. And, I love you for it.

Okay, so here's what I saw yesterday morning.

On Saturdays at my local YMCA, there seem to be an inordinate number of fathers with little ones in tow. No mum in sight. I don't know whether these are divorced dads multitasking (getting in a workout on their court-appointed visitation day) or working dads giving their wives a break. Regardless, there are dozens of them and they all seem to have something in common. 

They are clueless.

Yesterday, I saw a man carrying his child into the Y in an Ikea bag.

Really, the little kid was stuffed into one of those oversized blue plastic totes that you pay for at the checkout in Ikea. They are strong enough for a box of coffee table, but a squirming toddler? I was dumbstruck. This was definitely a new something-or-other.

Usually, what I see is kids racing ahead of their dads, across the road and up into the front door. Sometimes I see fathers loading a car seat into their minivan, not realizing that their other two children are racing around said vehicle — in a busy parking lot and well under the sightlines of other drivers. Once, I was leaving after a workout and I saw a tyke on a tricycle peddling like mad and heading for the curb. "Red light! Red light! Red light!" shouted his padre (at least 40 feet behind him). Sure enough, the child went right into the road. Good thing I saw him. Good thing I anticipated his shall-we-say insubordination.

Good thing I'm a mom.

Sorry to generalize again, but from my close observation (and personal experience), mothers hold onto their kids. I held onto mine. It didn't stunt her confidence in any way. She's sixteen now and she's as independent as anyone could ever want their teenager to be. (She was also never found under anybody's car, thank-you very much.)

As my daughter has learned to drive over the past several months, I've tried to explain the difference between following the letter of the law and having a sixth sense about what's going to happen next. For example, you're driving along and you have the right of way. But, up ahead, you see a person coming to a stop sign and you just know they're not going to stop.

It's kind of the same when you're a mom. I point it out when I see it. "That guy," I'll say, "Doesn't have a clue where his son is." Of course, the dad in question has some vague sense that his kid is behind him. (Sitting on the pavement, playing with ants, in the middle of a driveway.) But, for a mom, that wouldn't cut it. We need to see our children, touch our children, create a physical barrier between our children and danger.

It makes me crazy — and these aren't even my kids. Dads, please, pay attention. Moms, please, nag your head off if you have to but make your partner promise to hold onto your precious son or daughter. And, drivers, please slow down when you see a child. They are small. They are fragile. They are likely to move in quick and unexpected ways.

I did say that there are exceptions, and I'm happy to put my husband into that category. Not only did he take great care of our daughter (he was always one for the classic piggyback or shoulder ride), but his instincts extended beyond our immediate family.

When our daughter was about nine months old, we went to Greece for a couple of weeks, leaving her with my mother. One evening, we were sitting in a taverna on a beach and a small child toddled past us and walked right off the patio. She would have dropped about four feet except that my husband, quick as a flash, had reached out and grabbed her. He swooped her up, turned her around and she toddled back into the restaurant. My husband never even missed a beat.

There was no question in my mind, he had become a father. And, for that one moment, he was a mother too.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.