Tag Archives: Family

aging, Being greek, humor, Uncategorized

Happy Camper?

This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult? 

Not too fun it turns out. 

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.” 

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said.  “You decide.” 

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

 I chose poorly. 

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing. 

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes. 

Great candids of me
Example of “jowls”

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.

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adolescence, college, Family, Motherhood

The Hardest Goodbye

For a year I have been counting down the days until my oldest goes to college. And not in the way you might think. This is the last summer we have before he turns 18. The last Christmas we will have while he is still living at home. The last family vacation while he is mine. I try to joke about it, “This is the last Friday in a July that you’ll be living under my roof before you graduate!”

But I’m only half joking. I am not ready for this stage of his life to be over. And what I really mean by that is that I am not ready for this stage of MY life to be over.

He is my firstborn. I have spent more time with this human than probably any other person on Earth. He is my heart and soul and life and happiness and anxiety and worry and pride and annoyance and frustration and everything in between. And his leaving is not just a rite of passage for him, but for me as well.

To all the young moms out there: Remember when you cried on your child’s first day of kindergarten? You ain’t seen nothing yet.

I wonder, were my parents this emotional when I left for school? I have no memories of them even dropping me off, although I’m sure they did. I have ZERO memories of my mom crying or even visiting me at school. I am quite sure she drove home and didn’t think twice about whether or not I was scared or sad or going to make friends or be lonely. I know FOR SURE she did not add Life 360 to her phone or order the blue bags from IKEA or get overwhelmed and panicked from following multiple parent groups on Facebook. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only time she called to check in on me freshman year was to ask me why I got a D in Statistics.

I’m not just saying goodbye to him. I’m saying goodbye to a season of my life I won’t ever get to experience again. And I have tried to savor all the days lately, even the bad ones, because at least he was still MINE. But still, this day came faster than I wanted it to.

And right now, I can barely breathe.

Raising my kids has been a joy. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it can be unrewarding and thankless at times. But spending time with them has been an 18-year journey (so far) that has fulfilled me in ways that I didn’t know existed before I had kids. It took many years to mentally adjust to being a “stay-at-home” mom. Accepting parenting as my job, and not being embarrassed or resentful or feeling like I wasn’t using my degree was difficult. But now that I am nearing the end of this stage, I can’t believe how I am going to miss it. My house has been full of fun and noise and laughter and teenagers, along with dirty dishes and stinky soccer cleats and backpacks on the floor that for some reason just can’t make it the extra four inches into their cubbies.

I am going to miss having a house full of high school boys making noise in my basement. I am going to miss the shouting coming from his bedroom while he’s playing video games. I am going to miss someone as competitive as I am when we play board games during dinner. I am even going to miss charges showing up on my Target app and Starbucks app for Doritos and Iced Mochas. And just who is going to be there to explain to me what’s happening in all the Marvel movies when we go to the theater?

I barely remember the hard days. I mean, there are STILL hard days, but I’m sure someday I will forget these too. I just know that lately, I have ached for a do-over. Not to change anything, although I’m sure I would if given a chance. (Don’t get mad so quickly, don’t argue with them all the time, let things go more often). But I want a do-over just so I can experience it again. I want to relive the days when we would go to the library and the toy store and end our day getting ice cream. I want to go back to the days when he was attached to me and wanted to play trains all day. I want more zoo visits and mom-and-tot classes at the park district. The days when my whole life was him and his whole life was me. Why does it feel like I wasn’t paying enough attention all those years?

Today my firstborn goes to college. And he is ready in every way.

I’m just not sure I am.

First day of Kindergarten and first day of Senior year
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aging, Being greek, death, Family, grief

The Tapestry of her Life

When I think of her I think of teacups and cats.

And Boston. And England. And dainty little fingers. And coral lipstick.

She is my only female cousin on my mom’s side and she is 12 years older than me. Which makes her 65.

And about a month ago she asked me to write a tribute to her for her memorial service. Actually, what she really said was “I’m working on my memorial service (what, you think I wouldn’t try to control that?) and I’d like you to do one of your funny/spot on tributes and read it.”

So here we are.

Truthfully, I had already started writing it.

Two years ago she was diagnosed with ALS. And like the disease itself, her timeline is unpredictable. She is declining. I’m going to see her in a few weeks knowing this is probably the last time I will see her. And it’s another important person I am losing. Along with my mother, her mother, my sister, my father, and now her, my surrogate sister. And at this point, it’s beginning to feel as though while the branches of my tree of life might be growing, the roots are being yanked out of the ground one by one. With nothing to hold it stable, won’t the tree eventually just fall over?

If you know her well, you know she has had more tragedy and life shake-ups than most people. If you don’t know her, well, those stories are hers to tell, but to say she has moved through them and come to a place of grace and gratefulness is an understatement.

The truth is, I used to be scared of her. Let’s just say in her early years I don’t think you would have described her as easy going. She had a bit of an edge. Besides, twelve years is a wide age gap when you are growing up. By the time I was in Jr. High she was already living her adult life in Boston. She had moved there to be a journalist and had re-named herself “Cate” when NO ONE was Cate with a “C.” Especially not a Greek girl whose extended family could not understand why she would do this and did we have to call her Cate because she will always be Cathy to us and what the heck we will never get used to Cate.

Side Note: At this point she went rogue. Ok, not really. But as the memories start flooding back to me while I write this, I realize that she really tested the limits of our judgmental conservative, Midwestern, Greek-Orthodox family. First, she had a boyfriend that SHE WAS LIVING WITH. I mean, this was such a scandal at the time that I am nervous putting it in print right now 35 years later. I remember the phone calls between my mother and aunt discussing this unheard-of development. (NOBODY TELL YIAYIA!) Never mind she was in her 30’s with a full-time job half-way across the country. Thank goodness she married the guy. But then there was the non-denominational wedding (hand-wringing) with a lady minister (Kyrie Eleison) where no, they did not read about the Wedding at Cana but instead read from THE VELVETEEN RABBIT (“‘What is real?’ said the rabbit,” the poor bridesmaid choked out through tears).

But the joke was on them. No, it did not turn out to be the happily ever after my mom and aunt had apparently hoped for her, with the Greek husband who did not cook or clean or watch the kids but still made all the decisions. Instead, she found herself an ideal partner. And I mean that. I know very few marriages where the two people appreciate each other strengths and quirks as much as those two do. After 32 years of marriage they still not only love each other, but they like each other too.

But I digress.

We saw her maybe once a year. As far as I was concerned she was not my peer, she was an ADULT. I mean, she called our Aunt Susan “Susan.” By her first name! She didn’t seem to share the family silliness the rest of us shared. (In truth, she has a GREAT sense of humor and when I have the occasional oddball observation or catty comment I know she will laugh without judgement.) It was just hard for me to recognize this as a 12-year-old. I could not relate to this sophisticated cousin I barely knew.

Side Note: We are actually similar in many ways, but I didn’t figure that out until much later. She is smart and sarcastic, and sensitive and funny and a great writer (ok, fine, maybe that one is a stretch for me). She is opinionated and isn’t afraid to go against the grain and say what she believes, regardless of how popular her viewpoint is. She excels at sarcasm and wit. I realize now that I am an adult that she gets me in a way few people do. She was around when I was a very difficult child for my mother. And I think she was there to maybe even give some advice to my mom. Former pain-in-the-ass kids understand current ones better than most.

But then I moved to Boston for grad school. I was 24 and she was 36. We were finally at a point in our lives where age was not a deterrent to friendship. Yes, she was married with a toddler, but we were both adults. I would visit her downtown at her job when I was on campus, and then on the weekends at her house in the suburbs to either babysit or do my laundry, usually both.

My two years in Boston were both the darkest and happiest time of my life. It was a significant period for me and was crucial to who I am today. There were lots of stressors and little support and I was far from home. The fact that Cate and my sister Melissa and I were all living on the East Coast created a forever bond between us.

She is the one I call when I’m not sure if I’m using a semi-colon right (I’m not; like, ever). She is the one who texted me after I wrote a blog on grammar to tell me my grammar is ok but my punctuation could use some help. She is the one who when I was going through a bit of a depression informed me of the not-so-uplifting news that studies say happiness is a bell curve and we are happiest in our 20’s and 60’s (Gee, thanks. That’s promising.)

She is the one known for her creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts. She is also known for starting said creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts, and getting them to you one, two, three months (or years) after the event. (This is actually a genetic family trait so I’m not going to fault her on this one.)

She is the one who fan-girled with me at Copley Place in 1994 when Olympic speed skater Dan Jansen was there signing autographs. We waited in a long line so we could have him sign our newly purchased Olympic-themed Swatch watches. She was cool as a cucumber while I said something ridiculous and then bolted.

She is the one who drove over an hour in a snowstorm when I called my sister desperate with grief after my mom died. It was the Nor’easter of 1994 but Cate showed up at my door to take care of me.

She is the one who I think of when I hear Billy Joel, James Taylor, Carole King and Carly Simon.

I have watched more family members nearing the end of their life than I care to remember. This one feels different. There is not a desperate struggle through the next treatment. A blind hope for a miracle. A positive attitude to fight the good fight. I only see an even-keeled acceptance. A serenity that I admire. A gradual decline coupled with increasing support from family and friends. Adjustments have been made to keep her mobile, communicative, and comfortable. I am sure she has her days, but I sure don’t see them. I asked her the other day if she was scared. “No,” she said. “Sad.”

Me too.

***This essay was written before my dear cousin passed away on August 4th, 2022, hence the use of present tense. When she asked me to write this tribute to her, she shared that she hoped she would be able to read it someday. I did, in fact, sent it to her several weeks before she died. I read an edited version for the actual memorial service, but this is the original version. I will miss her terribly. ***

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