The Mom, the Nitpicker

This summer I am professional nitpicker, literally and figuratively, which started when we dropped our daughter off at sleep away camp.

Waiting on line at Ellis Island—as my daughter like to calls the health screening queue before one is granted access to camp—I couldn’t imagine how my life would change. To say that the discovery of a single nit in her hair would alter my existence may seem dramatic, but it certainly altered my summer.

After the nit was discovered, we were ushered into a room where we were instructed that we had a choice: return to the mother country (also known as home) and treat the lice ourselves, or hand over our credit card and have a professional treat her.

I doubt my ancestors had a credit card handy when they reached Ellis Island, but they toiled away in this country so that I could earn enough to keep a Visa on hand for such emergencies. She joined the rest of the quarantined campers.

So a day that was supposed to run very smoothly for a second year camper who was entirely excited, was a bust. Instead of settling her in to camp, I spent the day hovering over a professional nitpicker.

And while I watched, and treated myself as well, (not one lousy louse would come home with us!) my poor husband was at a Laundromat running all Julia’s worldly possessions through a dryer.

And I nitpicked with him, too. I wanted every sheet, item of clothing and blanket under high heat even if they had not had contact with Julia in years.

So Julia missed the first day of camp in nit limbo while she waited for her hair to get the all clear. The image of her face in shock and her voice shaky as she kept asking her personal nitpicker when the ordeal would end is etched in my mind.

And while I trust she’s resilient, the experience has caused me to be a figurative nitpicker. Last summer, I was a cool sleep away camp mom. I saw pictures, she looked happy. The letters were brief, but not negative.

I marveled at my ability to send my first born away and not worry. I laughed at friends who poured over "bunk 1"—a modern day peeping tom that allows parents to view photos of their kids at camp—analyzing every facial expression.

Well, I have become that parent; the nitpicker who tries to interpret and understand the nuances of her kid’s camp experience from afar.

I am fortunate. She likes the camera, so there is plenty to analyze. I just wish I wouldn’t nitpick. For instance, has she made any new friends? If pictures tell a story, she has exactly two friends. I love her two friends, but since she was split up from most of the girls in last year’s bunk does this mean she doesn’t like her new bunk?

And not to nitpick, but does she have to wear a shirt on a hot sticky day and then loan it to a friend instead of putting it in the wash? Have I taught her nothing about personal hygiene?

As I dissect her letters from camp, my husband accuses me taking nitpicking to new heights. If you can call them letters.  One was a list of items to mail; another was three sentences thanking us for sending said items. I know that no news is good news, but is it so much to expect that my ten year old will tell me what activities she has chosen?

And not to nitpick, but as much as I do, I am weary of my nitpickers support group, the assembly of friends and acquaintances who similarly obsess about their kids’ overnight experience. I must field half a dozen calls or e-mails a day soliciting my input on a letter, photo, or lack thereof.

I am considered one of the fortunate ones in this group and my membership is tenuous at best because her letters—though devoid of information—are also devoid of complaints. And she is smiling in the pictures.

As I said to a friend recently who suffers from missing his son, sending a child away to camp is one of the more selfless acts we do as parents. We have to entrust their care to other adults, but also have faith that they will be able to problem solve without us there to guide them. And we miss them much more than they miss us (hopefully!)

And I suppose that is where all the nitpicking comes from. It is hard to relinquish control. In my daughter’s final two weeks at camp I plan to do just that. Of course, this was made much easier when my neighbor returned from a visit to the camp yesterday. She informed me that Julia was beaming, and she seems much happier at camp than she ever does at home.

Not sure what that says about our parenting, but I’ll take it!