Camped out: the exit interview

During Camp Invention, Lily really got into reverse engineering washed up appliances.

When Lily was in preschool – and Neve was in utero – it dawned on me one day that complicated though our daily life often seemed, it would grow far more complicated when Lily aged out of year-round preschool, and we suddenly had to figure out what to do with her in the summertime. (I was spending my days in a newsroom back then, so my anxiety level spiked just thinking about this not-too-distant future conundrum.)

I asked friends with older kids what on earth they did with them in the summertime.

“We usually do camps, a different one each week,” one said. “So one week is Jedi camp, another is computer camp – things like that.”

I nodded in that way we all do when we’re taking in information and thinking “UH-UH, NO WAY AM I DOING THAT. THAT SOUNDS CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS.”

But guess what? When the time came – Lily returned to her preschool for on-site “camp” the summer after kindergarten and first grade (I registered her for 2-3 camps then, for variety, and to dip our toe in the water), but after second grade, it became clear that Lily was ready, and needed to, move on. 

Yes, there’s a nearby private pool club – that seems to be a culture unto itself – that we may buy our way in to one day, provided we’re willing to swallow the not-cheap bond purchase, as well as the also not-cheap annual membership fee. But even then, I’d still need the time, the quiet, and the space needed to make my freelance work deadlines. The pool would ultimately be somewhere we might go after I pick the girls up from camp, not an all-day option.

So Joe and I finally had to acknowledge the truth that all working parents must face when they’re kids grow out of preschool: you know that crazy weekly day camp thing our friend told us about? Yeaaaaah. That’s probably what we need to do, too.

I lost 7 lbs. in one month – but did I really need to?

So where was I?

Oh, yeah. Reluctantly making an appointment with a nutritionist/dietician at my doctor’s urging, because my medical-resident-du-jour thought added weight was the cause of my recently diagnosed (and successfully treated, BTW) sleep apnea.

Not that I felt like there was a problem. I’m in good health, I exercise regularly (including running a few times a week), and while I’ve put on a few pounds – which may have accumulated while my apnea went undiagnosed and untreated for months – I chalked the weight gain up to the ravages of aging and post-layoff stress. I’d been trying to embrace, not fight or go crazy-nuts over, the natural shape of my middle-aged body.

So in mid-July, I found myself in a consult room, feeling like a kid who’d been called down to the principal’s office.

The dietician – a tall woman with long, gray hair – entered, sat down in front of a computer and began asking me questions, beginning with, “What do you want to get out of today’s appointment? Why are you here?”

I shrugged like a moody, petulant teen and said, “I’m not sure. I guess I’m here because the last doctor I saw thought I should try to lose some weight, and that this might solve my sleep apnea issues.”

The uncomfortable, pregnant pause that followed indicated that I had my doubts.