I wasn’t a regular at camp.

My Mom stayed home with us and I guess from a parent’s perspective, camp was in some respects an alternative form of daycare during those summer months when both parents worked.

Some of my friends strapped on their knapsacks, tilley hats and all-summer-long fluorescent t-shirts and settled in for two straight months of being forced to stand on a lunch table and sing if at any time their elbows rested on the wooden picnic table while they gagged down another bowl of gooey mac ‘n cheese. And they loved it.

They loved it so much they convinced me to tag along, sometimes for just a day and on occasion for an overnight visit. I accompanied them to outdoor activity camps and even to bible camp. I was non denominational and burnt marshmallows tasted the same whether we prayed before the three legged race or simply hobbled along without thanking anyone for our sugar sack first.

I was the kid who stared awkwardly while everyone else knew the appropriate chant for someone who accidentally fell out of line while hiking from one leech filled pond to the next. Everyone giggled while centering out their fellow neon soldier and I wondered how long it would take me to get home if I started running down the highway the second the C.I.T’s started, “Everywhere we go, people always ask us, who we are, so we tell them, we are the sweat hogs..” for the twentieth time that day.

My oldest expressed an interest in going to camp for the first time this year. Selfishly, I saw an opportunity to delay the “Can we please get a pool?” pleas for another week if I let her go. She also saw it as a chance to spend a week (between the hours of 9-4pm) visiting with one of her school friends and I did think camp would be a great non-playdate kind of way for them to bank some quality time together.

My five year old asked if she too could tag along and when I noticed the age of enrolment was four to eight years, I knew a day of bike-riding and leisurely sprinkler jumps with the baby was looking likely.

As I packed their lunches, sunscreens, labelled water bottles, back-up water bottles, bathing suits, towels, hats, extra socks and a big hug I heard them complain of having butterflies as we drove to Camp Slacker Mom.

I felt nervous for them, the same way I did over thirty years ago wondering if the stilts I was balanced on would be fast enough to get me to the parking lot or beyond before anyone else had a chance to fold my hands together for yet another kumbaya recital.

I worried my counsellor was involved in some sort of probationary community service program forced to tie shoes and fix boo-boos against their will while the bubbliest teenager on the planet gave her campers piggy-back rides, French braided hair and made the world’s best s’mores.

I worried I would have to sing, “The other day, I met a bear” and other songs that encouraged shouting the repetitive lyrics back to some wishing-he-was-a-cub-scout-instead fourteen year old boy.

Day 1 for the girls wrapped up as follows; 1) The pool was shut down within minutes due to someone vomiting, 2) My five year old was stung by a bee.

Memories that will last a lifetime.