My oldest, Magpie, at the age of 10 has now joined the ranks of those who can say they've gone to sleep-away camp.
My husband, who never went to sleep-away camp, finds the whole idea of sending one's child away incredibly baffling. And it becomes even more baffling to him because Magpie isn't just at any sleep-away camp this summer, she's at my childhood sleep-away camp.
Which means my husband and I have conversations like this one, which of course only re-enforces his whole idea that the concept of sleep-away camp is extremely befuddling:
Husband: I'm worried about if she forgets something.
Me: Don't worry! If you need something, Blue Boar's has it.
Husband: Blank stare.
Me: Y'know, I told you about Blue Boar's. Actually it's not Blue Boar's anymore, it's Jean Mart.
Husband: Blank stare, now on an increasingly irritated face.
Me: Jean. You don't remember me telling you about Jean? The head of camp for like years and years? Very beloved. She was awesome, truly a very special person. That's why Blue Boar's is Jean Mart now.
Husband: Blank stare, possible smoke coming from ears.
Me: (sighing) The commissary. Blue Boar's, which is Jane Mart, is just the commissary. Okay?
Husband: (sighing in a way that makes my previous sigh seem like a tiny, little whisper) What the fuck is a commissary?
Me: The camp store. It has everything. You don't need to worry about her forgetting something, because she can get it there. The camp store. The commissary. Blue Boar's. But to be entirely correct Jean Mart.
Husband: Would it have been so hard for you just to say there's a camp store?
Me: It's not MY fault you never went to sleep-away camp.
This is my thirty-seventh instruction in my ongoing series Instructions for my Husband.
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