Yesterday morning, bright and early, my son left for camp. This was the first year that he actually asked if he could go with our church to their summer program up north, knowing that he'd be hundreds of miles away from home for a full seven nights and eight days.

So we woke up waited in the parking lot with all of the other campers and their families for the buses to arrive,

and watched as all of the luggage was loaded-up. Then my view turned something like this:

A little teary-eyed and choked-up...

...and then I was officially crying as the buses honked their horns and pulled away.
It's not like he hasn't been away from home before, because he has...with his grandparents or good friends. But this is different, because we can't chit-chat on the phone, or call each other to say "I love you," or "Wuz' up? You having a good time?" (Personal calls are reserved for emergencies only in the northwoods, and all electronics are prohibited, which is a-okay with me.)
Right now I'm just hoping that he's made some good connections with his cabin-mates and camp counselors. I'm hoping he's having so much fun he can hardly stand it. And I'm hoping that he'll come home having made some new friends, and that he'll talk my ear off while recalling all the "awesomely excellent" experiences he had. More than anything, though? I admire my boy for having such an adventurous spirit and embarking on a new experience without reservation...

And with that, I'm gonna go drink some more ice coffee and knit away any worries that may or may not be bouncing around in my mind. Ta-ta for now.
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