Facing Our Fears

What Camp Visiting Day Taught Me

An hour ago, I asked my little guy to open the drapes.

“What if there’s a man hiding behind there? What if he’s going to kill us? What if there are deadly fire ants who come to life and —.”

“If there’s a man behind there, we’ll both be dead in two seconds anyway. Can we see if it’s a nice day out first?”

“I can’t.”

“You’re watching too much YouTube.”

“Mom, being scared isn’t from YouTube.”

“Come on. Face your fears. You’ll feel better for the rest of the day.”

He timidly opened one side and hopped back under the covers.

Facing your fears has been the theme of my summer  — of the past six years of my life — epitomized by what happened in the lake during camp visiting day.

My little guys went to a small sleep away camp in Maine for two weeks. Interestingly, my son wasn’t scared when he slept in the woods one night under a tarp he and his friends made out of branches and garbage bags. A Hamptons bedroom though. Watch out.

Anyway, their camp’s visiting day was an interactive experience in which all parents and siblings were supposed to take part in the activities including “water toys” which featured two-story wobbling slides, climbable icebergs, and a trampoline connected to a Tarzan-like rope swing.

There was no getting out of it. My kids had talked about going in the lake on every call home. My daughter, it turns out, was waiting for me to go in so we could “do it together” and hadn’t been in the water the whole time except for a mandatory swim test. Was it the leeches or common sense? Who knows.

She’d been quite specific in her instructions: bring a bathing and a cover up (“the Zara dress is too short, Mom; wear a long dress”), sandals, and a change of clothes.

We got ready along with her older sister in her cabin which smelled exactly how my cabin smelled when I went to sleep away camp in the 1980s. What is that smell?! Rotted wood? We walked down to the lake, our towels over our arms, sandals flopping.

“That’s where the life jackets are,” my daughter said, when we got down to the waterfront.

“Oh, I don’t need a life jacket,” I said.

“No, Mom. You have to wear one.”

“I’m sure they’re just for kids.”

“Mom, come on. You have to.”

I looked around and noticed a couple other dads with lifejackets on. Damn it.

I searched on the rack for a dry lifejacket and grabbed a size large.

“Mom, that’s too big.”

“It’s fine!”

My daughter walked over and lifted it up and down with both hands.

“It’s going to be over your head.”

“It’s fine! Don’t worry!” I said.

Moments later, I was standing barefoot on the splinter-filled walkway straight out of Peter Pan. Wendy walking the plank, I followed the kids down to the water, fully aware that my backside was on display for the rest of the camp. I tried to cover my butt — not even my butt, the area where my butt and legs become undulating mounds. Does that area even have a name?

I peered over the edge. I can’t f—ing do this, I thought. But my daughter was also scared. Shouldn’t I be showing her that we can face anything!??! I had to this! For her! For all the kids!

Nope. Couldn’t fake it.

“I’m ridiculously scared.”

“Me too,” she said.

My little guy offered his hand.

“Let’s go together, Mom,” he said.

I took a deep breath, bit my lip in anticipation and, holding his hand, jumped in.

Three-two-one…. Splash!

SCREAM.

“It’s so cold!!!!! Oh my God! It’s so cold!”

I bobbed in the water, my life jacket under my nose, screaming.

But I’d done it. I was in. And actually, it warmed up quickly. And the lake was beautiful.

My little guy swam over to me.

“Now it’s time for the slide, Mom!”

The slide was attached to what seemed to be a surfboard platform which I could barely get onto from the water. (My arms were sore the next day.) With a little nudging from strangers, I climbed up and started scaling the wall, awkwardly finding the next rungs with my hands and feet.

Right as I approached the top, I froze. I was going to have to jump up a little. If I missed, I’d go hurtling down the slide face-first. If I fell the other way, I’d knock down the 10 campers climbing up behind me. My little guy and older daughter were waiting for me at the top.

“Come on, Mom!” They urged.

I couldn’t move. My legs were shaking, not just from the exertion.

“I can’t do it!”

Campers cheered me on. My little guy held out his hand to help, but I refused to take him down with me.

“Well, I’m going,” my older daughter said, and went down the slide without me. Traitor.

“Me too,” my little guy said, preparing to slide.

I screamed, “Do not leave me up here.”

The 18-year-old blonde lifeguard perched on the ledge was no help. He just stared at me. Who was this middle-aged mom who couldn’t even get to the top? I’d like to note that I was the only mom who even attempted this.

Finally, a kind camper suggested I shimmy to the right to find better footing. Did I mention my ex-husband was also in the lake and that Kyle and my ex’s new fiancé were dry and gorgeous on the dock, watching?!

Quaking, I pushed up that extra bit to get to the top. Then once I actually sat down, it was time slide.

“Push her!” Someone yelled.
“Noooo!”

My heart pounded.

Another deep breath. Another bit lip and… “AHHHH!!”

I dug in my thighs and went down the slide which, devoid of water, basically became a burn machine. I couldn’t even get all the way to the bottom. I came to a complete stop at the base, my feet hanging over the edge.

“This is the worst moment of my life!” I said, hysterically laughing, before flopping into the water.

I still have an entire side of “raft-burn” scabbing up. But I pushed through the worst moment — for the sake of the kids — and survived. Laughed. Made memories.

I’ll skip the trauma of getting onto the trampoline, the fear of jumping onto the Tarzan rope, or how I was too afraid to jump off it so went catapulting back to the trampoline where all the campers ducked and took cover as I approached.

But all my daughter remembered was that I did it. With her. Like I said I would. She had a blast.

“I can’t wait until we do this again next year,” she said, as we walked in our towels up the hill.

“You know, there are other camps….”

“Mo—om.”

And she took my hand.

Facing your fears.

My drapes are still half-closed. But we’re getting there.