A few weeks ago, I read Tuck Everlasting during our annual family sojourn to Nebraska. I found a copy in a free lending library the day before our trip, so it seemed like the thing to read.

Towards the ends of the book, the protagonist, a young girl, reflects upon her adventures:

Things had happened to her that were hers alone, and had nothing to do with them [her family]. It was the first time. And no amount of telling about it could help them understand or share what she felt. It was satisfying and lonely, both at once. 

Today was Pippa’s last day of summer camp. She has been to camp before, but only at her co-op preschool, where I did volunteer days and knew the teachers and routines. But this was big kid camp. The parents were not even allowed on to camp grounds. We just walked the kids to the entrance and waved as they marched down a hill to pack away their lunches and swim bags and have all sorts of adventures.

It was strange. Pippa had quite the experience this summer – friends and counselors and games with names like Epic and Camouflage. I heard snatches of camp songs hummed from the back seat of the car or from a heap of bubbles during bath time. I often reminisced about my own experiences at summer camp.

But I wasn’t at camp with Pippa this summer.

Sometimes, I feel as if I’m supposed to feel devastated by this separation. Except I don’t. I am proud that Pippa went off on her own and made friends and came home grubby and filthy. I am glad to see that I am not just raising a daughter, but a human, an individual who can go off and conquer the world in whatever way she sees fit.

It happened to her and was hers alone and had nothing to do with me.  It was the first time.

But it won’t be the last.