Hot Mom Summer (Camp)
Registration is our cardio
When my son was three another mom asked me what we were thinking about summer camp.
“Uhh, you mean like the movie Meatballs?”
Blank stare. This mom was much younger than me.
“The what?” she asked casting her gaze cast upwards. It had been three weeks and four days since my last root touch up.
“My eyes are down here,” I said. “Now what’s this about summer camp?”
My son was three, you guys. There was no way he was attending a summer camp. His whole life was one long summer camp. But I knew SUMMER CAMP was a thing and it was definitely coming for us the same way orthodontics and puberty were riding in the HOV lane on the childhood milestone super express.
I had heard the stories. I had seen the Excel spreadsheets tracking what weeks little BrillllleighAnne would be attending juggling camp and when Kennmour would be dabbling with TNT clusters at High Explosives Camp. I have witnessed the disappearance of my friends for weeks while they prepped for the opening of summer camp like it was a Martha’s Vineyard farmer’s market in June. Wrist rolls, cracked knuckles, tendon glides. Their box-checking and cart-adding reflexes had to be tip top. They memorized their credit card numbers and children’s t-shirt sizes. These moms were seasoned and registration was their sport. They had to get their kids enrolled in camps— CAMPS, with an “s”. There were 12 weeks to fill and some camps only ran for 3 weeks. Some were only 1 week. Some camps were so popular you couldn’t pick weeks— you got whatever scraps were left over. Some super special camps only ran for 1 day. ONE DAY! Who is running this racket and how do I get in on it?
Moms knew what other moms were going through. The stress and anguish of preplanning the summer calendar and setting reminders in January for when the sign-ups began. Moms like helping other moms and usually do, but Summer Camp was different. This was war. Telling another mom about how awesome Kayak Camp was could be the reason sweet Pritchfield misses out on his annual paddle around the Delmarva Peninsula. It was every mom for herself.
I evaded the Summer Camp sign-up perhaps longer than usual because the daycare my son attended also offered a camp and he happened to be best friends with the daycare owner’s son. That prestige meant he was always granted a spot, even when I forgot to read the 137 email reminders saying it was time to sign up. I would wake up in the middle of a beautiful May night and send a frantic email saying how sorry I was and how embarrassing this was and I’m sure it was too late, but I’d be ever so grateful for even one random Tuesday in August if she could find the space. And she would always write back saying, “Oh, I’ve had him enrolled since November. All good!”
Maybe I would be spared this special kind of Excel Hell.
Maybe my kid would never want to go summer camp.
Maybe I was a big, smug, dumb dumb.
One day my son discovered basketball and it was a nonstop obsession from there. A bunch of kids he knew were going to some local basketball camp and apparently it was the coolest thing since the game when Shaq went in for a dunk and brought down the entire baseboard. (My son gave me that analogy.)
“Okay,” I told him when he mentioned it. “I’ll look into it.”
Looking into it meant asking another mom at school pick-up if she heard of this camp.
“Hoops for Life?” she hissed, yanking me by the elbow and dragging me into the blackberry bramble. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it! Everyone and their literal mother has heard of it. It’s the hardest camp in the city to get into!”
Whoa, I thought, plucking thorns out of my elbows. Harder than getting into Paddle Board Junior Whale Watchers and Circus Showdown Sports? How could a summer basketball camp be all the rage? It wasn’t even outside!
“Sign-ups are soon,” she said in a hushed tone. “Don’t talk about it in front of the other moms. The more people who forget, the better our chances of getting in are.”
Damnnnnn, these moms meant business! Maybe my kid would develop an interest in crossword puzzles or house painting instead?
But nope. This camp was all the rage and my kid was getting caught up in the frenzy. Every day he came home with another list of kids who were doing the camp.
Kid, I wanted to say, It doesn’t work like that! You can’t just say you’re doing the camp and expect to get in! Their cutthroat moms are going to battle with other cutthroat moms! Not everyone will be learning life skills and a step-back 3 in the high school gymnasium this summer!
These kids, man! So entitled! And every one of them wanted in on this camp and every parent in the Pacific Northwest would be ready on February 18th at 5:00PM to hit that add to cart button.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said to the most rational mom I knew. Her kids wanted to attend this camp too and despite her heroic efforts, didn’t get in last year. “This camp has four weeks. It employs every kid over the age of 15! It’s huge! How can it be that hard to get into?”
“Remember how hard it was to get Taylor Swift tickets?” she asked.
“I heard, yes.”
She looked me dead in the eye and raised one eyebrow. “Just wait.” Then she strolled off to Costco to pick up a limited edition Bluey interactive playhouse.
February 18th was fast approaching and I wasn’t about to take chances in case this hype was not hyperbole. I did several dry runs to make sure my internet connection was working, the site was bookmarked, and my account information was saved. Having to reenter your credit card’s expiration date might be the difference between seeing the words, “purchase confirmed” or “you’re on the waitlist!”
Three days before registration opened, the mom of one of my son’s best friends told me the flight home from their midwinter break was changed and she’d be in the air when the floodgates opened.
“Do you think you could sign Riley up too?” she asked.
Look, I liked this mom a lot, despite her being totally ignorant and oblivious about the popularity of this camp too. I also liked Riley and knew my son wanted to attend this camp with him. But did she really know what she asking? Did I even know what I was agreeing too? So I took down Riley’s pertinent information, gave myself an extra dose of Pepto Bismol, and got to waiting.
My friend Des happened to be visiting on registration day so I put her to work. Her kids were older, but she remembered summer camp hell and bore her own war wounds in the form of carpal tunnel from trying to get her daughter into a theater camp and her son into a music camp. I set her up with my laptop while I used Bart’s.
“Okay,” I said. “Game plan. You’re in charge of Riley. Unless you get in first, in which case…sorry, Riley, but my house, my rules, my son gets priority.”
“Understood,” she said.
At 4:30 PM Alexa announced it was almost time to sign up for camp.
At 4:35 PM Alexa announced it was almost time to sign up for camp.
At 4:40 PM Alexa and Siri announced it was almost time to sign up for camp.
At 4:45 PM Alexa, Siri, and every alarm clock in our house went off.
At 4:50 PM I sent my son to the park with a friend. I did not want him to bear witness to what was about to go down. No child should see their mother like this.
At 4:55 PM Des asked if we should take a shot to settle our nerves.
At 4:55 PM I yelled at my best friend for suggesting we do anything that could impair our judgement or slow our reflexes.
At 4:56 PM I almost threw up.
At 4:57 PM We did shots
At 4:58 PM We repeatedly hit refresh on the sign-up page.
At 4:59 PM REGISTRATION OPENED
“OMG, it’s happening!” Des shouted. “Shit! Where is their age group??!”
“It’s not age! It’s grade! Fourth grade!” I yelled. “FIND FOURTH GRADE!”
“It’s not letting me add it!”
“It’s in my cart! I got it!”
“NO! It’s the grade they’ll be going into this fall! You have the wrong group in your cart!”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccckinnnnnnnnnggggggg ballllllllllllllllsssss!!!”
“The site just froze!”
“Mine too!!!”
“GET YOUR PHONE!”
“It’s the spinning rainbow circle!”
“GET MY PHONE!”
We’re screwed!
“GET THE IPAD!”
“This site is going down! WE ARE LOSING CONTACT!”
It was true. The site was grinding to a halt under the sheer tenacity and desperation of a thousand million moms. Yes, I realized with our two laptops, two phones, and an iPad we were contributing to the problem, but goddammit I was in it now! This was the Hunger Games. You win or you die!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. No one was getting stung to death by tracker jackers here, but the pressure was real. There would be moms at school tomorrow $179 poorer, but richer with self-satisfaction. Some kids were going to this camp. My kid would be one of them.
“It’s not working,” Des whimpered. “There’s no way.”
“Hush!” I took Des’s chin between my sweaty palms, turned her face towards me, and looked her right in the dilated pupils.
“We are so close,” I said. “You hear me? There is a way. It’s our time. Goonies never say die. You find me that session 3 fifth grade spot and you smash that add camper button. You can do this!”
A bead of sweat dripped of her forehead onto the back of my hand.
“Gross,” I said. “Now GO!”
“For Riley,” she answered holding up her fist. “Unless we can only get one kid in, of course.”
We spent the next fifty-eight minutes in a manic cycle of near-success and critical failure, getting kicked off the site, waiting for the site to reload, Des begging to do another shot, filling our carts and our carts emptying out before we hit the checkout. And that spinning goddamn rainbow circle. We were all spinning. The sweat pouring off my face made my fingers slide off the keyboard.
And then… I got the right session in my cart and made it all the way to checkout.
“I’m almost there!”
Des turned her attention to me. “You got this. Just take it slow. But not too slow. I feel good about this.”
I was Jack Bauer diffusing a bomb. I was Andy from The Goonies1 trying to play the right notes on the bone organ before the ground crumbled beneath our feet. I was the paramedic who wrestled Baby Jessica free of the well and handed her back to her parents. I was not making any relevant or timely analogies, but my mind was elsewhere, okay?!
Shirt size.
Address.
Emergency contact.
Date of birth.
Credit card CVC.
PAYMENT!
Submit order!
And then…
…
…
“The blue bar is moving,” I shouted.
“No!” Des screamed. “It stopped! No, it’s starting again!”
It was the slowest moving bar in history, but it moved all the way to completion!
“Camper registered!” I screamed. “I repeat, WE HAVE A CAMPER REGISTERED!
My son was in the camp— no THE CAMP. He was in! I did it! The absolute biggest, most proudest mom moment of my life! You cannot have momentous without a MOM!
I may have cried a little. We definitely high-fived. But it wasn’t over yet.
“RILEY!” Des shouted. “You promised his mom!”
Oh, god no. I was done. Emotionally drained. My bones hurt. Did I really promise I’d get him in? Or just try? It had been over an hour. A very stressful hour. Riley did lots of sports— I bet Scuba Kids still had openings.
“He deserves a chance,” Des said “We have to give him that.”
“Oh, fine,” I sighed. I knew she was right. Besides, I already drank the bottle of wine his mom gave me as a preemptive thank you present.
Back to our five devices.
Clearly lesser moms gave up the fight because it only took another fifteen minutes to add the fifth grade session to my cart.
“I’M IN!!!”
It was at this moment my son and his friend returned from the park.
“Did you get me in the camp?” he asked. Again with the entitlement!
“NOBODY TALK TO ME!” I screamed while slowly, deliberately filling in Riley’s info like I was a surgeon repairing a tear in a grasshopper’s aorta.
Shirt size.
Address.
Emergency contact.
Date of birth.
Credit card CVC.
PAYMENT!
I was about to hit submit when Des let out a scream.
“RILEY’S BIRTHDAY IS DECEMBER 23! NOT DECEMBER 22!”
Would it have mattered if I had the date wrong? I don’t know. What did matter was my friend who drove an hour to hang out with me on a Sunday in February had spent the last 70+ minutes trying to enroll a kid she’s never met in a basketball camp she’s never heard of. Why the hell would she do this? Because she’s competitive as hell. And also a mom, I guess.
I fixed the date and then the four of us waited, staring at that blue bar, scared to look, but unable to look away. My fingers were stiff and shaking. I had B.O. This was Riley’s last chance.
And then…
CAMPER REGISTERED!
When the cheers died down my son’s friend made some stupid ass comment about how he wanted to go to basketball camp now too and my son was like, “Mom, can you just…” and then I blacked out.
I wish I could tell you that months later my son said the camp was the greatest thing ever and it’s responsible for making him the most awesome, responsible, vegetable-eating good sport who also happens to be great at layups, but alas. He complained about their pizza and getting up early and by 4 PM everyday his knees always started hurting.
I wish I could also tell you that three months ago when I got an email from the camp saying it was almost time to sign up, I didn’t scream at my laptop and run out of my office like I had just seen the little girl from The Ring.
A few days later a mom asked me if I have ever heard of “this basketball camp…”
“Uh huh,” I said. “The pizza sucks. But you know who does have good pizza? Little Healer Crystal Camp. Let me tell you all about it.”
XO,
Shelly
Thank you as always for reading Middle-Aged Lady Mom! If you enjoy parents who fear every life choice and mask their pain with humor are funny, I have some recommendations to add to your reading list:
Give them a follow and enjoy!
XO,
Shelly
Yes, that’s 2 Goonies reference and you’re welcome.
Holy shit I am dying. I haven’t laughed this hard in a hot minute. As the mom of a middle and high schooler this laugh is the laugh of a hardened summer camp veteran slash survivor with the crazy laugh and eye twitch to prove it.
You have witnessed my pain. Perfectly said.