Dream Job

Yesterday, a camp job appeared in my inbox. I know. I should have unsubscribed from the list a year ago. Most of the postings only confirm that camp life is not sustainable. The pay is low, the sites are remote, and the opportunities for spouses are limited. I've learned the hard way that having housing attached to a position is a tainted apple. It’s good until it isn’t, and then you’re not only unemployed, you’re a nomad again.

But this job. . . oh my. The salary, for once, isn’t horrible. The previous camp wife was the office administrator, so a role is all but guaranteed for her successor. Its Pennsylvania location lands it smack between Bug’s New England cousins and his DC area grandparents.

Not that I’m thinking about it or anything.

I understand now why the Commonwealth of Virginia requires a one-year separation before even considering a divorce. The initial blaze dies down and cool heads take over. Weary from 52 weeks of custody discussions and a malnourished wallet, some folks might decide the marriage is the lesser of the evils.

Some folks might.

The camp opportunity really socked it to me. Part of me wants it back with the desperation of a refugee. The fierce, maternal pull in me longs to return my family to the woods to heal. I can picture Bug riding the school bus home to the end of that dirt road every day, running through trees and along the edge of the lake to find his mommy and daddy both there. The camp life nourishes us all back to life.

Or so I have believed.

I sink my teeth into the sweet flesh of this perception, and crack hard against the stone. Tee could not sustain it. The entire picture fit perfectly around the fiction of my husband’s success as a camp director. It is possible, of course, that magic could reveal some unknown well of potency within him. Hell, the next woman may whisper just the right spell to rouse the dormant hero.

Something between us did not work to this end. We left two camps in a whirlwind of noisy silence. Endless explanations obscured unexamined truth. The third camp ripped away the pretense. Under all the chatter, the emperor was, in fact, buck naked.

The job posting has kicked off an avalanche of fantasies about offering Tee the possibility of reconciliation. This would be conditional on his taking charge of his career and landing a position – in the camping industry or, really, anywhere – that could support his family. That reconciliation is mine to offer and the conditions upon it mine to determine are insane notions. What kind of marital farce have we been conducting all these years?  The major decisions affecting the well-being of my family are, yet again, left to me. For the better part of a decade, this has been the dynamic. Somehow, I contributed to such dizzying imbalance. It is stunning to realize that the strength of my personality could steer me so wrong. Yet, all along, I received such patchy assistance (or resistance) from Tee that it became easy to justify.

Pursuing the divorce, Tee has determined, is my choice. He wants no part of making the split happen but also claims he has no power to set things right. Splice or cleave. Whether my son gets one home or two is up to me. Whether he grows up in the woods, the city, or a small town in the Midwest is up to me.

Astounding, really, isn’t it? Such a silly, directionless girl, holding all the cards. Forgive me, please, if I falter.

The leadership of a family must be shared. The power to make decisions is a burden, it is true. But now I understand that no one spouse can free the other from that difficult work. We all may like to believe we can avoid the toughest calls by not making them. No choice is a choice, after all.  It was inaction that exposed the weaknesses in the foundation of our camp family and left us without a home and without an income 15 months ago. I could decide to take charge again. I could, perhaps, encourage and cajole Tee back into that life. I could throw all my chips behind rebuilding our home in the woods. Tee at the helm of a camp may reveal to both of us a man who can prosper.

In doing so, I could build a beautiful facade destined for an even more devastating collapse.

Or, I could release my grip and let Bug’s parents each chart their own course.

Which would be the lesser evil?

Lapping

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas

-Alfred Noyes, "The Highwayman"

Bug unfolds the telescoping poles and gasps in delight as they pop into place. The shock cord is missing from one, but we shove the pieces together and manage to jam them into the corner grommets before they collapse. Bug is better at helping with this than I expected. His development surges ahead under the powers of a mysterious momentum.  When we attempted this task a few months back, I had to guide his hands and grit my teeth through the whole exercise. Now, my son takes my multi-step directions in stride, snapping everything into its proper order. Within a few minutes, a dome tent is occupying the majority of the real estate in our back yard.

I had hoped to take Bug to the beach this summer. Alas, the stars did not align. For now, a suburban campout will have to stand in for the ocean. Bug does not seem to mind, even though he tells me far too often these days, “I hate your house, Mommy. I want to sleep at Daddy’s house forever.” It should sting, I suppose. Instead, his statement rolls off. I know he wants more of me, not less. At his dad’s, Bug shares quarters with Tee. At our house, he has to suffer the torture of having his very own room.

For all his cognitive headway, Bug is still just a little guy. He likes nothing more than to position himself squarely in the center of his parents’ gaze. Of course, he is also growing like swamp grass. I’m not so foolish as to believe a shared bed with Mom will be my son’s greatest delight in summers to come. This is a chapter quickly drawing to a close. It is becoming harder to call Bug’s attention back from its outward pull. For this brief moment, though, he still presses himself into my embrace. My son seems to want to disappear into me, even if only to have a safe harbor from which to launch his next voyage.

On this one unseasonably mild weekend, the least I could do in the absence of a sea is to give my boy a night with me.

We pile the nylon floor with two dozen blankets. In come the flashlights, books, pillows, water bottles, and stuffed animals.  I issue a firm edict against all electronic toys. The blackberry and portable games are all relegated to the house.

As night falls, we crawl in and zip up the screens. Then down. Then up. Bug climbs around on me, giggling. He splays his body out across mine, sighing, rocking ever so slightly from side to side. He twists into my limbs, pressing his chin into my shoulder.

Once he has drunk his fill of me, I help Bug strap a light to his forehead. We attempt to read about insect-eating plants. Bug turns in the direction of every new noise. “Listen to that!” A cricket. A critter. A flutter of wings. The lighthouse beam sweeps in arcs across the choppy surface of the night. Our story disappears and re-emerges between swells.  

Even after four books and the steady approach of the wee hours, Bug is still bouncing. I confiscate both torches, but his excitement is bright enough to light Times Square. Into the sleeping bag. Zipper up, too hot. Zipper half down. Shirt tag itching. Shirt off. Too cold. Zip the bag back up.

“Oh, baby, am I ever sleepy.”

Wiggle, press, hug, twist. “I’m not sleepy! Let’s stay up all night!”

“I wish I could. But my toes are too sleepy.”

“Your toes can’t be sleepy. Toes don’t go to sleep!”

“Mine sure are about to. You know what else is sleepy? My ankles.” I yawn big. “And my knees. Boy, are my knees ever so sleepy.”

I take a lazy stroll up my body. Bug giggles when I talk about how drowsy my bottom is. He thinks sleepy hair and sleepy earlobes are hilarious. A low tide is lapping at the edge of the tent. It begins to spill in. I let it roll on down my skin as I follow it back towards the outer reaches. “I have the sleepiest spine,” I drawl.

Bug is very insistent. “MY spine isn’t sleepy.” His voice is sinking under the weight of the deep.” My (ya-a-awn) legs aren’t sleepy at all.”

I bid goodnight to my toenails. Bug’s feet have beaten me to the punch. His breathing comes slow and deep. He snuffles, turns, throws a naked arm across my belly. Winged insects plead for mates through the dim moonlight. Their song calls up another wave. My feet give way, and I follow my son under.