One Step Ahead

A year after the Texas Hill Country floods, my daughter’s camp forms sit on the counter.

My daughter’s summer camp sent a manila envelope full of forms for us to fill out. I need to document her medical history and her preferences for camp activities.

I’ve left the forms blank, sitting on the counter.

Paperwork has never been my zone of genius. Also there are approximately one million things that need to be done in May.

The calendar is filled—field day, splash day, poetry readings, and the art exposition.

One kid needs a white shirt for tie dye. Another needs a cowboy hat. The AAPI Museum display is after school on Friday and the family potluck at 11am on Thursday.

Spirit week across three kids means I’m coordinating crazy hair, crazy socks, sports shirts, fancy day, hat day, dress like a teacher day, pajama day, and obviously “dress like your door day”.

In between all of that we need to make sure the kids are rested, eating breakfast, and arriving at school early for their MAP testing.

Contributions are needed towards teacher appreciation week and end-of-year gifts.

Please also toss in a few dollars for the end of year pizza party. And popsicles.

Lastly, please send 200 paper cups for the urgent end-of-year lemonade stand to raise funds for the class rabbit. The rabbit needs hay.

This is all on top of my normal job. The one where I’m trying to cram in as much as possible before the kids are home for summer and my professional productivity will screech to the bare minimum required.

All of this is a plausible reason to have not filled out the camp forms.

The class rabbit, though, is not the reason the papers remain blank.

It is because that stack of papers on the counter reminds me of the little girls.

The girls that died last summer.

The unassuming questionnaires tucked between utility bills and Costco mailers remind me of the storm that ripped through the Texas Hill Country in the pitch black hours before sunrise on the fourth of July.

One hundred and thirty nine people died—at least. The total varies a bit with each report.

One number, though, is consistent across headlines—twenty seven.

Twenty seven girls at summer camp. An entire cabin, many the same age as my daughter, washed away.

That camp is just up the road from the one my daughter attends. An enchanted place I sent her for the first time last summer. A huge milestone for her.

She returned home a few weeks before the tragedy—so happy she practically levitated.

“Can we talk about camp some more?” she asked over and over again. For weeks the soundtrack of our car rides, neighborhood walks, and dinner table was tales of s’mores and sing-alongs.

She was still telling us stories as the floods tore through the region.

I scrolled my phone in silent horror as the rescue crews scoured the rubble, the floodwaters still raging.

Safe in our home, she continued talking about her cabin mates and relay races. I was not sure how much to say to her about the flooding, the horror in such close proximity to the place she found so much joy.

I read every name and absorbed the details of every face on the long lists of missing people. The photos of the little girls wearing wide toothy smiles and camp t-shirts.

I shared fragments of the news with my daughter. Carefully walking the line between truth and terror.

At eight, she is not old enough to truly grasp the reality of the flooding.

To be fair, I can’t grasp it at forty.

She counted the number of days until she could return.

355 days.

To her, this felt like an impossibly large number. The wait—practically unbearable.

I, on the other hand, found some relief in the number. Maybe 355 days would be enough time to build up the courage to send her back.

Turns out there will never be enough days.

There will always be a gap between how far our children are ready to venture and the instinct to hold them close.

My daughter is always one step ahead of where I feel prepared to go.

I never went to camp growing up.

To be honest, I don’t really understand the appeal. Spending that much time in close proximity to other sweaty overtired kids seems—unappealing.

But it is unequivocally her favorite place.

I’ve read the studies and the parenting guides, an attempt perhaps to intellectualize my way out of sending her.

The data is clear—high quality camps help kids develop independence, confidence, and communication skills. They can be a place for kids to grow into themselves. Really, though, I don’t need a study to see that camp is good for her.

So I do the things I know how to do.

I read the updated safety protocols and look at the flood plains on all of the maps.

I review the new laws and the outlines explaining the new flash flood warning systems.

I watch the testimony of the mothers who lost their babies last year.

I cry for those little girls and their broken mamas.

I buy 200 cups for the lemonade stand, thankful for the chaos of May.

And I fill out the forms.

Listing my daughter’s preferences for activities in order. Horseback riding, chorus, swimming, and archery.

And I pretend I am not afraid.

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