Camp, part 3

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"

My screams could be heard far and wide as I fell through the air, forty feet off the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... then falling, falling, falling up. Trying not to curse. Children are present, including my daughter. Fellow parents are below, alternately shouting approval and snickering with amusement as I fly by on the Giant Swing. I am petrified, but glad that I followed the advice given by my friends Andrea and Bernard, both of whom said I should go all the way to the top before my free fall, lest I regret my cowardice after the fact. Okay, they didn't use those words, but that's what they meant. This advice didn't mean too much coming from Andrea, since she's basically crazy, and proud of it. But Bernard? He seems sensible, and he has a fear of heights, like me. I decided to step way out of my comfort zone and go for it. From the top.

Getting to the top would involve the hoisting-me-up-by-pulley crew actually getting me to the top. I surveyed the crew of parents; they looked fit and eager to hoist me to my fate. The final variable (barring mechanical failure, which I was definitely trying not to think about at that moment) was the wuss-out factor. To make sure that did not come into play, I made one final request to a couple of the dads in the hoisting crew: "Even if I say 'stop' before I reach the top, just keep going."

Wuss-out insurance in place, I began my ascent. When I thought I could not possibly go any higher, I gesticulated wildly with my arms and yelled "Stop! Stop! Stop!" Surely, I was at the top, wasn't I? I wasn't. The crew kept hoisting. And, in a couple more heave-ho's, I was at the top. I closed my eyes, and let her rip, releasing the lever that would propel me through the air, hurtling like a giant boulder toward the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... and falling, falling, falling up. I opened my eyes to see the trees whizzing past me, sailing through the air like Cathy Rigby in Peter Pan -- minus the green costume and the smile.

Looking back at the weekend, I am shocked to find that the Camp Augusta experience seems to have agreed with me.* My journey to the Giant Swing has involved much self-evaluation and a fair amount of encouragement from other parents. I found inspiration in watching my daughter, cheering as she tackled the Giant Swing, traversed the High Ropes Course, and observing quietly as she navigated the sometimes treacherous obstacle course that is the fourth grade girl social universe. I tried out many new activities -- Silk Painting, Paper Marbling, Tie Dye, Rock Climbing, Archery, Riflery, Axe and Knife Throwing -- and found Axe Throwing to be very therapeutic.

Unfortunately, I will be returning to my home soon, where there will be no Giant Swing to challenge me, and no place to (safely) throw axes. But I will take with me the feeling of shedding my grown-up levels of fear and anxiety and venturing off to Never-Never Land, where I am flying through the air -- like my seemingly fearless nine year old daughter.

*Except for the dirt, bugs and lack of private bathrooms.

Camp, part 2

Friday night, 11 pm: Trying to sleep. All I can hear is mosquitoes on motorcycles, circling my head as if it were Infineon Raceway. It's too hot. Wish it were colder. I turn the giant Coleman lamp on so I can face my tormentors. It's them, or me. Survival of the biggest. I take the flashlight and peer over my sleeping daughter, ready to kill any insect daring to land on her. All clear. Lights out.

Friday night, 11:05 pm: It's too hot. Can't hide from the bugs. Decided to read. Can't sleep. Bugs still buzzing. Might just be ringing in my ears, but I can't be sure. Really need to pee.

Friday night, 11:06 pm: Too hot. Don't like being this sweaty. Still need to pee.

Friday night, 11:21 pm: Just got back from the bathroom. It seemed so much closer in the daylight. Bugs seem to be less numerous. Really need to pee.

Friday night, 11:47 pm: Held out as long as possible. Just got back from the bathroom again. Why does it seem so far away? Bugs seem to be less numerous. Maybe I will get some sleep now. Lights out.

Saturday morning, 12:01 am: Lights on. Hot. Bugs. Need to pee. Trying to be strong. Reading will distract me from the need to pee. So glad I brought extra batteries for the lamp.

Saturday morning, 12:03 am: Really need to pee. Does camping shrink one's bladder? Am determined not to walk all the way over to the bathroom again. It's just too far. And there are bugs there. Maybe I will get some sleep now.

Saturday morning, 12:10 am: Why is the bathroom so far away? Why, oh, why? This will be my last trip.

Saturday morning, 1:07 am: Note to self -- need to Google "camping bladder" and see if it is a medical condition. Will volunteer to be a case study. Bugs not buzzing so much anymore. Not as hot. Trying not to think about the need to pee. Mind over bladder. Lights out.

Camp, part 1

As a Japanese American child growing up in Gardena, California, I did not know anybody who went to camp. At least not voluntarily. "Camp" was someplace where a handful of my uncles and aunts spent some time during WWII, and where a few of my cousins were born. It was located someplace out in the middle of nowhere, and you weren't allowed to take anything there that did not fit in your suitcase. During the '70s, when customers of a certain age group would come to my mother's yarn shop, there was always the question, "Were you in the camps?" followed by, "Really? Which one?" which was followed by either: (a) "Ara maaa! I know you! I'm ___! Do you remember me?" or (b) "Hmmm. Are you related to ___? Honto? (Really?) That's my uncle/aunt/cousin!" Some connection within a few degrees of separation was almost inevitable, and I could hear the camaraderie in people's voices as they reminisced about a time when they made the best of a terrible situation, adapting to their new homes behind barbed wire.

Given my point of reference, I never felt like I was missing out on anything when I didn't go to a sleep-away summer camp. I knew about those camps from TV and movies, and they seemed to be only for white kids, anyway. Or, at least, that was the impression I got from watching Little Darlings, starring Kristy McNichols and Tatum O'Neal. What an eye-opener that movie was for me! Who knew that summer camp was so ... uh ... "educational"? I was fine being limited to my girl scout troop overnight camping trips, where we learned to pitch a pup tent and wash our dishes in a bleach solution. A couple nights around the campfire singing deeply religious songs about Gabriel-blowing-his-horn and how we should care-to-be-redeemed was really fun, even for a little Buddhist child like me who had no idea what I was singing about.

Fast forward to 2008. Since my girl scout camping days, I have only been camping one other time, in 2000. Or was it 2001? Apparently, I was so traumatized that my brain has blocked the date out of my memory. That trip made me realize that I am quite content to be: Not a Camper. However, due to the persuasive powers of other moms at the school, I found myself appointed as one of the organizers of my fourth grade daughter's school trip to Camp Augusta. And, due to unforeseen lacrosse playoffs, my husband and son are no longer going on the trip, much to the delight of my husband, Mr. Not a Camper. Leaving me and my daughter to venture off to camp. All alone.

As the camp date nears, my dread begins to grow. I keep having flashbacks of shivering in a sleeping bag back in 2000 -- or was it 2001? -- and getting dirt into every crevice. And I know that the number of wrinkles and folds of skin has only increased, which, of course, will mean more dirt. I try to stay positive (for my daughter, of course), but I find myself privately venting to my husband. "You know I'm Not a Camper! Woe is me," I say, looking as forlorn as possible. "Quit being such a wussy. Just suck it up already," says my husband.

I know he is right, and I will. For the sake of the children.

maui memories

"Hewo, dere, Mika," Miles said to his little sister, talking though an empty miniature box of cereal.
"Hewo, dere, Miyoz," Mika said back to her big brother. With the help of Boyar, I am flashing back to the memory of the kids sitting on the condo balcony in Wailea.

Today, the kids sit at a counter in a different condo in Wailea, chomping down some cereal that they have poured themselves, reenacting the "Hewo, dere" scene to indulge their parents.

"How old were you guys when you did that?" I ask.
"Really young," says Miles.
"I dunno. Too young for me to remember!" answers Mika.

My guess is it was seven years ago. Mika would have been two, Miles, four years old. And Dad would have been about seventy years old. We were staying at his condo on one of the golf courses in Wailea, where he had slept on the sofa so that we could commandeer the rest of the condo with our Pack n Play and various other little kid contraptions.

Boyar had videotaped the scene of the kids eating their cereal -- with a healthy dose of zooming out to film the golf course -- his adorable kids' voices still in the background as he cropped them out of the frame to capture the beauty of another creature that was close to his heart. Father and son would go off together later that day, rendezvousing with one of the gorgeous golf courses on Maui. Makena? Wailea Blue? Gold? Maybe it was the public course, Waiehu, where they sell Spam musubi at the turn instead of hot dogs. Hey, the better the bargain, the better the golf. As a condo owner, Dad enjoyed the local resident kama'aina rate, which he was very happy about.

It is bittersweet to reflect on this now, having just laid Dr. John Lee, M.D. to rest a few days ago. He was my second "dad", and I remember feeling privileged that he let me call him that. He was my mainstream, out-there, super-confident, always happenin' dad; similar and different from my own dad in so many ways. Having a father-in-law is like getting to have a dad who has no memory of what a pain you were when you were little, no headaches or annoyances to reflect back on, no decades of expectations one could never fulfill, a no-baggage dad. Or, at least, that's how it seemed for me.

It's hard not to tear up as we vacation here, with many good memories of Dad, thinking about how he looked out on this same sunset, played a round of golf on this same course. I dropped off Boyar at Makena this afternoon -- twilight rate begins at 2 pm -- and had an image of Dad and Boyar in Wailea, looking hot and tired, sitting outside a pro-shop as I drove over to pick them up. Relief on their faces as they saw me drive up, getting up and walking over to the car, walking that same walk, looking like each other, a father-and-son twosome.

Boyar is golfing as a single today. But I'm thinking Dad might be right there with him.

quote of the day

"Rumors are like Wikipedia: anybody can say anything they want."

These words of wisdom came from my eleven year old son this morning, just as he was rushing out the door to school. He is living the middle school life, facing the realities of rumors and peer pressure on his own. Every so often, he says something that just makes me laugh and smile at the dead-on accuracy of his statement. Apparently, some things are crystal clear when one is eleven years old, and just get muddied and confusing over time.

I am glad I actually heard what he said today, instead of my mind being preoccupied with Girl Scout cookie inventory, middle school scrip inventory, lacrosse club merchandise and uniform inventory, trying to think up a Lunar New Year craft project, putting up the Japanese Girls' Day dolls, taking down the Japanese Girls' Day dolls, cleaning up cat vomit or looking for something that somebody needed right that second. The holidays -- the winter ones, at least, have come and gone, melding into the flurry of activity that comes with being a mom-volunteer during the spring months. Summer will be here in a few short months.

Another school year is slipping away.

happy new year!

There was something in the air this morning -- a happiness, a feeling of goodness and light. After days of rainy weather, the sun was shining. People practically bounced like Tigger, grinning maniacally as they gave a “Happy New Year!” greeting to the crossing guard and other parents as we walked our kids to school. I, too, felt the euphoric buzz, giving my daughter a quick kiss on the cheek as the bell rang. I said my good-bye to the crossing guard, dashing across the street and down the hill. I waved at my colleagues -- the other moms and dads -- as we shared a moment of communal ecstasy. It was the first day of school after a two week "vacation." No more gift wrapping. No more holiday stuff to do. No more kids hanging around ... all ... day ... long ... needing to be fed and intellectually stimulated. (Okay, so my kids may not have gotten too much of the latter -- although I did see them playing “Big Brain Academy” on the Nintendo DS during one of our road trips -- and I did feed them, on an as needed basis.)

Yes, we were free. At least until 3 o’clock. Just enough time to reminisce about when the kids were little babies and were so cute and cuddly -- a time which neither they nor I remember very clearly anymore -- and then use the remaining six hours and twenty nine minutes to do all the errands and other things-I-am-responsible-for-in-life that I can cram into that timeframe.

Unfettered.

Ohhhh, yeah.

the good ol' days

My son came home from lacrosse practice today, and it was the first time I could smell him coming in the door before I actually saw him. I am telling myself that this body odor must be emanating from his clothing, and not his person. And, I am telling him to go take a shower, now. He must have just absorbed somebody else’s body odor when he was at practice. It’s like that one really smelly guy we used to play basketball with, who everybody tried not to guard too closely, since you knew that the contact alone was enough to permeate your skin and clothing. Guys used to go home and have to explain to their girlfriends, “Baby, it’s not me! Really, it’s not! There’s this guy that I had to guard, and he’s really funky ...”

No, it is not possible that my son has body odor yet. I’m not ready for that. Body odor signifies the end of an era, the end of innocence, the end of all things warm and fuzzy about motherhood, and the beginning of ... puberty. Even the sound of the word is unpleasant. Pee-yu-berty.

Another mom I know had warned me about this. How her son and his friends now pile into her car after football practice and immediately start dispensing aerosol cans of Axe body spray to mask their putrid aroma. “I felt like I was huffing!” she said, describing the buzz she was getting as the fumes wafted up to the driver’s seat.

I am not ready for Axe body spray to be added to my shopping list. I do not want to hear my son saying, “Mom, can you buy me some Axe?” in an unfamiliar, low and booming voice. Shudder.

I suppose it is bound to happen. I am reminded of the time, about thirteen years ago, when I was at the video rental store with my fourth grade niece and her middle school aged brother, and she came up to me as we walked through the aisles, sadness in her big brown eyes, reaching for my hand and reporting,
“Andrew says I have B.O.”
“Oh, that’s not nice.”
“Do I have B.O.?”
I leaned over and pretended to sniff. “I don’t smell anything,” I said, honestly. Kelsey returned to where her brother was, and said, “Aunty doesn’t think I have B.O.” And, Andrew, of course, being the older brother, leaned over and took a big giant whiff ... and promptly proceeded to make gagging and choking sounds, as if he was about to die.
“Uggggh!” he moaned.
“But I took a shower!” pleaded his little sister, eyes seeming bigger and browner than ever.
“Kels, did you use soap? Like this --” he said, demonstrating how to wash his armpits, right in the middle of the video store.
“Andrew -- I knoooow!” said Kelsey, about to die of embarrassment.
My niece’s pleading eyes were about to swallow me up whole. I was happy to be just an aunt, and not have to deal with this drama playing out completely once they got home. I didn’t realize that a decade-plus later, I would be reminiscing about that incident as the good ol’ days, when all I had to think about was somebody else’s kids having B.O., and puberty was just a thing of my past, not my kids' present and future. I need to brace myself. Yabai.