Max returned from his week at camp looking older. It wasn't like he'd sprouted a beard or anything and I'm pretty sure they don't infuse the chocolate milk with growth hormones there, but still, he looked like a lot bigger. So I'm going to assume that a) Max is inching up and b) I don't realize this because I see him daily and c) I am in denial.
Max's awesome counselor from last year, Kirsten, requested Max. As soon as he saw her he started laughing and laughing, which is what he does when he's really excited.
Unlike last year, I did not call the camp repeatedly and neurotically until someone called me back. I knew Max was happy there, and that he was most likely having the time of his life, and that Kirsten was looking after him. And sure enough...
I am submitting the above one to the Polo Ralph Lauren people, because I think Max has missed his calling as a polo model.
Meanwhile, I missed him terribly this whole week. I kept wondering what he was doing, and whether he was thinking about us. The house felt empty without him.
"Do you miss Max a lot?" I'd ask Sabrina.
"No," she'd say, with feeling.
But deep down, I knew she did.
It was nice to give Sabrina lots of one-on-one time and special treats—we rented "her" DVDs from Redbox, got oatmeal cookie ice-cream, played Pengoloo, looked through her baby photo albums, and let her get oversize gumballs from whatever machines she found.
We also let her crash in our bed a few times, because this wouldn't be our lives if at least one kid wasn't sleeping with us. Someday, I am going to be dozing off in the nursing home and I will awake to find Max or Sabrina in my bed.
When we arrived at the camp to pick Max up and he saw me, he ran toward me, half laughing and half crying. I swooped him up and he nestled into me and breathed into my neck in that make-me-melt way he does.
And can I say how happy I felt? He is getting bigger. But he is still my baby.
