BFF.

Summertime as a relax-by-the-water-day-tripping,-sunday-kinda-love season is not anything that rings true for us here at Chez Who. It used to be that way — back when The Who was taking a 3-4 hour midday nap and we had a working outdoor grill and a membership to the community pool. But since we started at camp (he, going and I, working) summertime has been a too-little-sleep-long-commuting-completely-tapped-out kind of season. I regularly bemoan my lack of free time, my unappealing farmer’s tan, and the long, incessantly chatty commutes.

In addition to the watch-line and the farmer's tan, there's this appealing little number. Ah, the [not so] elusive Keens-tan. Classy.

In addition to the watch-line and the farmer’s tan, there’s this appealing little number. Ah, the [not so] elusive Keens-tan. Classy.

Plus, this summer, there’s the added delight of a head cold that rapidly descended into my chest, landing me at urgent care, nebulizing on a work day. (I’m not going to lie; though I could do without the illness — including the antibiotics and 4x daily inhaler — I did not mind the day “off.” I spoke to nearly no one all day and took a nap on the couch while The Who was delivered to and from camp by a friend.)

The Who came home that day from camp and drew this for me. "Feel better Mama. Sorry."

The Who came home that day from camp and drew this for me. “Feel better Mama. Sorry.”

Despite all of this, though, the silver lining is bright. The upside to The Who and I spending so much time stuck together like glue is that we are tighter than ever. He looks for me throughout the camp day, blowing me kisses and giving me high-fives when we pass in the hall. I look forward to our quick lunchtime visits. I make him little surprises in my art room. And then, at least four days a week, when I unpack his backpack, I find some sweet drawing that he has done for me during his day.

Why he addresses me as "Robin" in many of these, I'm not sure. This one says "You are the artiest person in the world."

Why he addresses me as “Robin” in many of these, I’m not sure. This one says “You are the artiest person in the world.”

We’re like BFFs. (Except we’re totally not. Because he’s 5 and I have my own friends and that’s kind of creepy. But you know what I mean.) We’re on the same wavelength. We know the same things — the same people at camp, the same silly little songs, the routine. It’s kind of sweet.

Senior Camp Art Teacher (that's me.) I don't know if you can make out the pencil at the top, but it says "My life is good." (He uses "th" for the "f" sound because of a minor pronunciation hiccup.)

Senior Camp Art Teacher (that’s me.) I don’t know if you can make out the pencil at the top, but it says “My life is good.” (He uses “th” for the “f” sound because of a minor pronunciation hiccup.)

He texts me on his Vtech from other parts of the house. "D-O-W-N and that's the way we get down." It's a silly little camp song that he knows I know.

He texts me on his Vtech from other parts of the house. “D-O-W-N and that’s the way we get down.” It’s a silly little camp song that he knows I know.

I don’t know if I’ll do this again next year. (Of course, I don’t know that I won’t, though, either.) There’s a lot of sacrifice for a very small financial gain. But then there’s also this. This sweet connectedness that comes from spending so much time together. It’s sort of like attachment parenting — five years late and without the family bed.

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One thought on “BFF.

  1. He’s getting to know you as someone besides Mama. It’s something not all kids get to do, and I think it’s a good thing 🙂

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