Camp is not all Kumbaya

I know what you're thinking? Is this woman mad? Camp, now. And if you're anywhere north of the Mason Dixon line you're probably laughing even harder. Or maybe not since it's ONLY those of us north of the of it who are thinking about summer when there's still snow on the ground.

But yes, I registered my kids for camp this week. Not just any camp,

We don't actually live in the proper restrictive area to get into this camp so I have to register a week after everyone else who is. And most sessions were already full by the time I arrived to register. So thinking I was so super clever, I decided to drop in on my way to take my kids to school on Monday when the office opened at 8:30 a.m. instead of registering online. STUPID! I must not have been that stupid because when I arrived there were already eight people in front of me. One man had been there since 7 a.m.

So I waited and waited and waited. Meanwhile, I called my friend who was at home registering on her computer in her jammies (bygones) and begged her to help me out. So she did. Yep, as I waited on line, I gave her my username and password and my credit card and before my name was called, I was registered.

As I left, I thought to myself why did I just do this?

Because it's summer camp! Don't get me wrong. I love summer--the pool, the zoo, the playgrounds, hanging with the summer buds, the beach, visiting new places. I love the change in routine. But I love it in June and July. And about halfway into July when all our friends are vacationing and my kids have grown tired of each other, the pool, and me, I crave camp. Camp is this wonderful place to send my kids where they can run around and be with new faces. And someone else can let them get dirty and tell them to stop throwing rocks. Ahhhhhhhhh... . .

Ok, so maybe there is some Kumbaya to camp after all.