Upon arriving at the bus stop, your sigh should be that of the wistful and forlorn, not like a convert stumbling upon God’s holy grille.
When the curious ask your dear camper’s length of stay, “Eight weeks!” must glide out like a person accepting the growing-out of a bad haircut, not erupt from you like a veteran proctologist embarking on a sabbatical following a “particularly rhoid-y” quarter.
Should your child wonder your plans for their room, do not blurt out “Keep it clean for once, slob!” or “Find a boarder to help recoup that private school tuition.” A simple, “Might replace that one lamp” will suffice.
When that overly sentimental mom says she “Can’t believe it’s been a year,” refrain from inserting an ill-advised (if perfectly timed) “only” between her “it’s” and “been.”
The performance of guilt should never turn competitive. That mom in the quirky hat just won a Tony, that dad over there is hiding his phone behind that duffel because he’s secretly embezzling widows, and the lady spraying sunblock on participants, both willing and annoyed, is a lapsed Catholic with a Jewish mother-in-law. You will not win.
No open bragging about your planned resort vacation. Half of these families are substantially richer, and their own destinations considerably more posh. Smug judgments will only make “your kid” feel inferior.
While insisting camp is a win-win for everybody, make sure there is more on the parental side of your ledger than “temporary custody of my own thoughts” and “breakfast nudity.”
When that mom, famous for her bake sale lemon squares but infamous for her many rumored affairs, moans, “Don’t know what I’ll do without my babies,” do not retort, “Probably that dad over there in the ugly madras shorts, Sasha.” Instead, say, “So hard!” Though salaciously, with a wink.
“See ya at Visiting Day” is to be said enthusiastically. Canceling that daylong wine tasting you errantly scheduled on Visiting Day must be done covertly.
Remind your child to write. But not, like, a book.
When you see a first-time camper crying hysterically, do pout sympathetically at the kid’s parents. Though not in a sexual way—you’re not Sasha.
If your own child appears nervous, “Oh sweetie, Dad and I have plenty of time to make our brunch rez” is not as consoling as you might think.
When you say, “I will miss you so much,” do not cite the exceptions to this longing. For there are some line items within your bullshit budget that also need a break.
Smile, knowing you have provided the skills for a summer of independence. Grimace, knowing the kid just asked, “Wait, what day is the Fourth of July again?”
Wave until the bus turns the first corner.
Margaritas immediately after the bus escapes your view? An obvious faux pas. A nice light beer is both less likely to spur a nap and less optically festive.
Drive away in silence, finally free of that one song your child has overplayed all spring. Resist the urge to play it yourself. Then give in and play it anyway, but do so with a mock in your voice. And a lump in your throat.
“Hey Siri: Remind me to schedule the sweet release of remembering who the hell I was in my twenties. Also, my colonoscopy.”
Worry your child’s already missing you. Remember that the haul of candy and squishies you provided for the bus ride is more morally questionable than Sasha. Worry that your child might never miss you again.
