Maraya Steadman '89, '90MBA | August 7, 2015
My son left for summer camp in the big woods of northern Wisconsin last week. We have no contact with him, no email, phone calls or texts and although I can write to him as much as I like, “Mom, I’m not writing you any letters.”
I know that. My son is 11. His greatest joy in life is running around with other boys his own age, on skates, on his bike, in the front yard, with a soccer ball, without a soccer ball, making up games with Wiffle ball bats and volleyballs. He wants to be anywhere but here with me and his two sisters. Perhaps this is to be expected, normal, developmentally appropriate. Even though I want my son to be independent, it’s difficult for me to accept his need to run.
The girls and I are surprised at how much we miss him. My older daughter has been cleaning his room. She’s organized desk drawers, dusted Lego ships, sorted through hockey cards, and I can only imagine his reaction when he returns home and realizes she touched his trophies.