Taking My Child With a Disability to Camp
What may feel like a small step for some children is a huge hurdle for my daughter with autism.
You chatter with nervous excitement. Your voice is light and breathy, and you can be hard to understand, but I understand you because I am your mom and I have been listening to you speak this way for your whole life. Due to the pandemic, it has been two years since the last time we drove through these mountains to drop you off for overnight camp and you share little details and memories from past summers. You like routine and you tell me about your previous counselors, the songs you sang, and even your favorite meals there. You ask me questions, like whether or not you will have to take the swim test, or if you will get the chance to swim this week, because it is forecasted to rain almost every single day. I do not have the answers, but I reassure you that you will get answers once we arrive. Halfway through the hour-long drive, you close your eyes and you are either resting or sleeping, like most fourteen year-olds, who always seem a little exhausted from staying up too late.
“Caroline,” I whisper softly, as I place my hand gently on your shoulder when we pull into the camp’s driveway. I can sense your nervousness as we make our way through the check-in process. We drive from one tent to the next, confirming payment and a negative COVID test, dropping off your medication, and getting your head checked for lice. You pass the lice check and the nurse writes one half of an X in Sharpie on your hand. You ask me several times when you are going to get the other half of the X on your hand despite my response that I do now know.
After we complete our tasks at the last tent, we are directed to a parking spot. I turn off the ignition and you ask me why they did not complete the X as promised. Then, you insist you’re not getting out of the car because you are too nervous and I wonder to myself if you would be less nervous if you had a full X on your hand. With gentle enthusiasm, I remind you that you just told me how much you love this camp. Reluctantly, you step out of the car and sidle toward the hatchback, where your pillow, sleeping bag and suitcase await being carried to your cabin. I grab your pillow and sleeping bag, but the staff person standing nearby tells us I can’t walk you to your cabin for safety reasons.
“I want to go home.” You cry and I turn to face you. The humidity has turned your thick, blonde ringlets into dozens of tiny spirals, framing your face, and I see the tears welling up and sliding underneath your mask. You are as tall as me, clutching a rainbow Build-A-Bear that our friend gave you because her eleven year- old has outgrown stuffed animals. I am glad that you are using the stuffed bear to help ease your anxiety, just like we planned before camp drop off day. I do not care that you are almost fifteen and you are clutching a stuffed animal for comfort. I am proud of you for knowing what you need and how to comfort yourself.
I make eye contact with the staff member assisting with the transition. I wonder if she can see the anxiety in my own eyes. Her eyes seem kind, and her voice is the friendly, sweet type that is required of camp counselors. She wants to help. But, she does not know you and she is confused because you are a five-foot, six-inch tall, teenage girl who is clutching a stuffed animal and is crying very hard.
This is where, in the past, I may have cried, or felt panicky. I have years of experience parenting you now, and I know what to say and what to ask the counselor to do. You and I have done this before, at this camp, and in many other places. You have cried and stood your ground in refusal to cooperate. I have existed in the space in time between wondering if we will succeed or fail and go home. I have felt inept at raising a child with a disability, and I have learned that I am not, because I know what you need and I know what you are capable of doing.
I ask the young woman her name and she tells me. I reply, “Great, Jane, this is Caroline. She has been here many times and she has so much fun but the drop off is always really hard for her. Can you radio her counselor and ask her to meet us here to walk Caroline to her cabin?” A few minutes later another chipper and friendly counselor arrives and introduces herself to us. She tells you that all the girls in your cabin are so nice and she can’t wait to make rock candy with you tomorrow in science class. I tell the counselor that you love rock candy and I do this while handing you your pillow and your sleeping bag. The counselor pulls your suitcase from the car. You stop crying, nearly, and we hug.
I hold you tightly and whisper that I love you and I’m so proud of you. You don’t say anything to me but it does not matter because I know you are ready. I say good bye and, just like that, you walk away with your counselor.
I get in the car and wave to the staff as I pass the exit. Not a moment later, my breath catches in my throat, and stutters several times, before it regulates with a large exhale and a release of tears. Letting go of the moment hurts a little. I am exhausted as my adrenaline lets down. Yet, it also feels good to cry, which I often do after you do the things I never thought you could do.
