“I used to do that, too!” said the new camp director, Tiny. “I’d stay up all night downloading music for film the night before camp.”

That’s the response I got when I announced, at camp drop off, that I thought Maddie probably spent more time preparing for camp than any camper in the history of camp.

An all nighter? I thought. Haha! Amateur!

Maddie had been preparing for months. Two trips to Party City, an order or two from Amazon, a couple trips to the local hardware store were just the beginning.

Then there was an assembly line. She was adding more tee shirts to her LARPing supplies, first printing out images of the icons for each team, covering them with red duct tape, and then cutting them out, adding velcro and attaching them to the shirts. I think there were fifteen total in this round of shirt making. It was a surprisingly efficient enterprise, and that’s coming from someone who considers herself a master of efficiency. Maddie even, to my surprise, gathered up the extra paper to toss the in trash when she was done.

She had also bought additional costumes—all with her own money—for leaders of the LARPing teams. Last camp session the LARPing became “Crusades,” and it was a huge hit. Maddie has basked in the glory of her success since winter session all the while thinking about how to make the experience even better.

She had asked if I would drive her to camp, rather than take the bus, because she was worried about the amount of luggage she would be bringing. And it was indeed a lot—a large suitcase full of clothes and an extra large suitcase full of crusading gear and other costumes (including the Star Wars costume, now appropriate because she had emailed the director and requested a Star Wars theme day). Plus a messenger bag full of duct tape. Always duct tape because you never know when that will come in handy!

I would have loved to drive her the two hours (each way) to camp. We always enjoy car rides together (lots of singing!). But I recently came to the conclusion that long car trips and I are not friends. Usually by the end of a multi-hour drive, I’m left with a migraine. And when I get one of those, it’s usually here to stay for days if not weeks or even months. So I asked the camp director if an extra, enormous piece of luggage would be OK on the bus. “We’ll find room,” he said.

The morning of camp, she was ready on time (yay!) and we packed up the car for the 30-minute drive to the pick-up location. It’s always a special time, when old friends from camp, counselors, and new campers mingle. Everyone is excited. Camp truly begins at that moment, which is also partly when I preferred she take the bus.

And then, as we unloaded all her gear from the trunk: “Shiiiiiiiit.”

“What?”

“I forgot the flags.” Her body slumped.

The flags are probably six feet in length, carefully and thoughtfully made with duct tape last winter for the inaugural camp Crusades. She had also spent several hours the day before perfecting the contraption she made to hold those flags by adding a body-strap to keep the whole from falling over on her back. She was so proud of that thing. And there was no way I was going to leave that stuff at home.

“Don’t worry,” I said immediately. “I will get them to you tomorrow. I promise.”

So much for not driving to camp!

Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to make the round trip in a day. There was already a plan in place for my sister to pick me up and take me to her house (200-plus miles south) for a birthday weekend in her area. That four-hour trip is of the migraine-inducing variety, so she had planned to do all the driving. Camp was sort of on the way. But her car is tiny and those flags are long, so I would have to put them in my car and take them to camp anyway. I could avoid the round trip and make my sister’s drive easier, though, in one fell swoop. I would drive to camp, deliver the flags, and my sister would meet me there and take me the rest of the way. I arranged to leave my car at the camp for a few days and retrieve it after my getaway.

After some discussion with my sister, we agreed that waiting until the next day wouldn’t work, so I drove home, threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed the flag, and off I went to camp. Spontaneous road trip!

After days of fun with my sister (Wine-tasting! Whale watching!) I returned to camp to retrieve my car. It was a hot afternoon and everyone seemed to be inside somewhere. I wanted to say hello to Maddie (which I was unable to do when I dropped off her flags), but I also know there’s a reason why campers and parents can only communicate by mail during camp. Any emotions bubbling up can suddenly become unbearable when a homesick or stressed out kids sees her parents. So, relieved, I hopped in the car and began to drive. But before I got out of the parking lot, though, I noticed a piece of paper under my windshield wiper.

Oh no, I thought. Somebody didn’t like my car parked there for days.

I stopped and grabbed the paper.  It was dated that morning.

“Hi Mom,

It’s your daughter, Maddie. Can you please come find me and talk? It might just be hormones, but I need to talk to you.

Love,

Maddie”

Oh crap. Now what do I do?

I was so torn. What if she was now just fine and seeing my face takes her right back to wherever she was when she wrote the note? Or what if she was indeed struggling? I’m really not supposed to be visiting camp, but there I was with that note.

So I got out of the car and begin cruising camp looking for somebody. Anybody. Much to my relief, after maybe five minutes of looking, I hadn’t spotted a single soul. I had tried—although not particularly hard—and failed. I had made the effort, and I could honestly say I had. And I returned to my car and drove home, feeling equally guilty and relieved.

When I got home, I emailed the camp director. I wanted Maddie to know I had found her note and looked for her (Mom points!). I wanted her to know I figured she was having a great time (no worries, Madz!).

He emailed later that night. He would have somebody check in with her, tell her I had found her note, and make sure she was OK. But by all accounts, she was having a great time.

She’s at camp for a total of twenty-four days this summer. In a row. There is a four-day break between the ten-days sessions, but a few kids stay for sort of camp “lite” and she elected to do that rather than come home for a few days. She would miss out on resting, but she also recognized it’s harder for her to reboot and get going again once she’s home.

It has now been eight days since she boarded the bus. I know in my heart she is having the time of her life. When I tell people about it, they often say, “So she really loves that camp!”

“Uh, I don’t think there is a word to describe how she feels about it,” I answer. “Love” doesn’t seem to fully encompass what she experiences there. It’s fun, for one thing. But more than that, this is a place where she is fully and completely expressing herself and everybody freakin’ loves it. She brings her costumes and they incorporate her characters into whatever campfire skits they’re doing or whatever story they’re telling in film workshop. She leads the crusades. She decorates the crap out of her cabin. She creates theme days. She yells and sings during campfire. She camps to the max.

So now that the flags are in place, and I haven’t heard anything else from camp, I can relax and know, and I mean know, that Maddie is in her element. She’s truly living at that camp.

And next time we’ll remember the flags.

I once saw a Facebook post that said that for a mom a vacation is just doing the same stuff, but with a better view. I often choose the word “trip” rather than vacation, especially when the kids were small, because it was actually more difficult to do all that same stuff away from home, regardless of the view over the sink.

Now, though, with two teenagers, traveling is much easier than it used to be. Mostly. We don’t have to lug all the accoutrements that go along with babies and toddlers, like car seats, and diaper bags, and special food for my formerly allergic kid. Now they lug their own suitcases, at least.

Before I get into this story too far, I have to declare my hesitation to make any complaints about a trip to the Caribbean with my family. I mean, I get to GO TO THE CARIBBEAN WITH MY FAMILY. That’s pretty awesome! My in-laws bought a house there many years ago and we have been the lucky beneficiaries of this purchase. The first time we went the kids were two and four years old. That was my favorite trip because we just put on pirate music and danced with the kids, and my sweet and wonderful mother-in-law made treasure hunts at the end of which would be a treasure chest filled with toys and plastic jewelry. (As the kids got older, and my mother-in-law started tiring of the treasure hunt task, the treasure would just be cold, hard cash.) We also put together a Playmobil pirate ship and the kids dressed up like pirates and did sword fights. And we boated everywhere and my toddler son fell asleep on my lap and the kids splashed in the water and they slept at night and it was wonderful. Except for the bugs. Have I mentioned mosquitoes love Maddie? Well, they really really do. She had bites all over her face and as much as she tried to just ignore the discomfort, she eventually broke down crying. I could hardly blame her. Just looking at her made me feel like crying myself.

We returned very early this morning from our seventh and likely final trip to that part of the world. My in-laws are selling the house because it’s just become too difficult to both get there and be there. This property is on an island with no services whatsoever. There are houses. And a little road. And some other houses. And a small marina. And that’s it. You want cookies? Get on a boat. Ran out of olive oil? Get on a boat. Need a doctor? Boat. Having a heart attack? Well, a few years ago a doctor moved onto the island and had a debrillator installed near the marina. So there’s that. Otherwise, get on a boat and meet the ambulance across the channel.

Let me also say that for a Hoelter family vacation, I give this a 10/10. Yes, there were bugs. Many hungry, biting bugs. I even found a dead scorpion. I had to make dinner every single night because takeout isn’t really a thing down there, especially on the island that’s a boat ride away from everything. There aren’t really any good restaurants anyway, so boating back in the dark after dinner wasn’t worth a trip out. But we had great boat outings, the weather was wonderful, and our son brought a friend along which made everything more fun.

And still, even on this 10/10 vacation, I had it UP TO HERE a few times with being the mom of an autistic kid. I had a few moments that made me want to quit this un-quittable job.

It started the day we left. The day before we departed, I encouraged my kids to finish packing. We had a red-eye the following day, but I really wanted to be ready to go early so I wouldn’t have a crazed, stressful start to our “vacation.” Maddie had her suitcase out. We had made some last-minute purchases (thanks, Amazon!) of swimsuits and shorts, and much to my surprise I only had to ask Maddie once to try them on. She HATES trying on clothes. She always has. I used to pay her ($1 per item!) to try on clothes I had brought home so at least I could know what to return. Now I don’t have to bribe her, but it’s usually a bit of a struggle. So I was pleasantly surprised at the ease with which this activity took place. I tossed her new items in the suitcase and suggested she continue packing a few things.

“Don’t forget underwear,” I reminded her.

“I know what to pack,” she replied, all indignant and teenager-y. I imagine she rolled her eyes, but I wasn’t looking at her so I can’t say for sure. It was kind of snotty but it made me so happy. First of all, she was telling me she could do something herself. Second, being indignant and teenager-y is wonderfully age-appropriate, so I always secretly celebrate these moments.

Right on, I thought. A good sign for things to come.

The next morning, though, departure day, nothing else was in her suitcase. I asked her several times to finish up so we wouldn’t be freaking out at six o’clock that evening. Finally, after she had failed to make any progress, she asked me to stay with her. “I can’t do it without you,” she said. “I’ll get distracted.”

Isn’t that just how it goes? One day it seems we’ve moved forward, and then I’m slapped right back to square one. Or whatever square I was just on.

So I did what she asked. I hung out on her bed and directed every little thing. Over and over. “Get four or five tee shirts,” I would say. And then repeat. And repeat again. I didn’t even care at all which shirts. This was a beach/boat trip, and one of the things I love most about these trips is what I call the “grunge factor.” You get up in the morning and put on a swimsuit or shorts and whatever shirt, you brush your teeth and probably just throw your hair in a pony-tail because it’s going to get all sticky and messy on the boat anyway, so why bother putting in any effort? Showers are at night before bed. I didn’t even unpack my hair dryer or makeup once. I showered, brushed my teeth and hair, and slathered on bug spray and sunscreen. So for this grunge vacation, she could literally pick up whatever tee shirts were on top of her pile and pack them. But she was struggling to stay focused. I eventually grabbed that stack of shirts and put them in her suitcase. She added underwear. I had ordered a pair of new Crocs (the only shoes she’ll wear besides running shoes and Uggs) simply because the pair she already had was buried so far under crap in her room that it was easier to get new ones than count on finding them in time. She was going to wear those, so we put those aside and packed her sneakers.

I really had wanted her to pack her stuff herself. What I like to do is simply give her a list and let her manage it herself, but she never does. My son packs everything himself but then likes me to just take a peek and make sure he didn’t forget anything. That seems like a reasonable transition from dependent to independent. But this is a different kid, so once Maddie’s clothes were packed, I suggested she be in charge of whatever entertainment she wanted to bring. The trip from California to the British Virgin Islands involves three flights. It’s unavoidable. It’s long. It’s boring. Not only that, but we had recently learned that there would be no internet at the house. So if she wanted to watch a movie or something, she would have to download it ahead of time. I had begun suggesting that days before, reminding both kids over and over, but about an hour before our departure, she still hadn’t even tried. And then, of course, at the last minute, she decided downloading a few things was a great idea whose time had suddenly come. Also of course, there were problems. Her laptop was full and she had to uninstall a few things to make room. I just had to walk away. I had tried so hard to plan ahead in order to avoid last minute stresses, and there we were, the minutes ticking away until our ride arrived, and my husband was now troubleshooting a phone and a computer and who knows what. If only I had spent the last two days in her room, constantly nagging her to take care of her business, or just doing it for her instead, we wouldn’t be in this situation, but I am trying to figure out how to encourage Maddie’s initiative and self-reliance in areas in which I think she will be successful. Isn’t that how we build self-confidence in our children? Seriously, I’m asking.

I tried to remain calm for this last-minute efforts that I had intended to prevent, and finally we just had to unplug everything and go. Whew! Crisis averted. You never know when she’s going to cocoon herself in her bed or simply refuse to move.

Which is exactly what happened two days later on our first full day of vacationing. We had decided the night before that we would boat over to a nearby island where we have gone many times before. When Maddie was six, there was an incident and ever since then she has been both paralyzed with fear and also determined to overcome this fear. This incident was merely a trip and a skinned knee on a short walk from the lunch spot to a delightful feature called the Bubbling Pool. You walk about a half mile on a dirt path, with a couple rocks to climb, and end up where rocks have formed a pool where the waves crash on one side and the water bubbles up on the other. It’s small, basically big enough for one family at a time. I would say about 30 minutes is a maximum visit and then it’s time to return to the boat. So on our first hike out there nine years ago, Maddie stepped into a smattering of red ants and then promptly panicked, fell, and skinned her knee enough so that scars remain today. She was truly traumatized, and as I recall we had no first aid supplies with us, so she had to suffer her way back to the boat. Not an unusual event for a kid, but for some reason the emotions and feeling of helplessness really stuck with her. For years she refused to return, but she had announced to us prior to the trip that she was determined to overcome her fears, get back on the proverbial horse, and take that daunting walk back to the Bubblng Pool, which really was our primary motivation for this particular outing. She had chosen the destination of the day and we were happy to go along with it.

The family was dressed and ready to go, we had snacks and towels and water bottles in bags, and after repeated reminders to Maddie, I finally ascended the stairs to what we thought would be the most bug-free (or really least bug-full) room to check on her progress. Cocoon. No face, no feet, no body, just a lumpy sheet. And silence.

I could feel the blood in my veins. Here we go again, I thought. I tried to remain calm on the outside, but as I’ve become more inclined to do as time goes on, my insides were on fire. Here we effing go again.

It turns out she was having anxiety about the Bubbling Pool walk, enough to keep her from going anywhere. She was wearing the sweatpants and tee shirt she’d been wearing the last two days. I encouraged her to put her swimsuit on, and assured her she absolutely did not have to do the Bubbling Pool and could decide at the last moment. She finally agreed to allow me to pack her swimsuit and just come as she was dressed, despite the sweatpants-unfriendly temperature outside. Most of the time I take what I can get. She came downstairs and we threw all our stuff in the golf cart. She flopped down on the couch in a clear signal: I’m not going. I had just calmly talked her into going and then we were back at square one.

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m going.” By this point I was mad. And frustrated. Or madsrated. Maybe that’s a word. So I walked outside and plopped down in the golf cart that takes us down the hill to the marina and back (my son did all the driving this time). I just didn’t walk to talk about it AGAIN. Hadn’t we already worked this out? So I sent my husband in. Several minutes went by and Maddie was up and ready to go. Again. I asked my husband what had happened, and he basically repeated the same conversation we’d already had, except he had the good sense to suggest we didn’t even have to go to that island at all. She was in charge.

The rest of the day went great. She walked to the Bubbling Pool in those black sweatpants and nearly fainted from heat exhaustion, but eventually did a secret behind-the-towel change into her swimsuit at the next stop so we could all swim up to the beach. We returned to the boat for our long ride back to the house, and as we made the last turn toward our home island, the sky opened up and the rain pelted us in typical tropical fashion. Maddie was thrilled, laughing and yelling and squeezing the joy out of every drop. In the end I think Maddie enjoyed herself more than anybody. Plus she felt accomplished for doing something relatively minor that had great significant to herself. A win!

And then, two days later, we had the very same problem in the morning. She wouldn’t move. I had to have a conversation in which I cajoled and pleaded and bargained and soothed and reassured, and then my husband had to do it all over again until she finally agreed to change into her swimsuit and join us.

“Welcome to vacations with our family,” I said to my son’s friend. He’s known us for years, so it’s no surprise, I suppose, but seeing it all this close and day after day had to be a bit more eye-opening.

And at that moment I just felt done. I would love to be able to say, “Hey let’s all be ready at 11:00” and then everyone does what they need to do and everybody is ready at or near 11:00. I wouldn’t even begrudge a reminder or two but having to have those lengthy, frustrating, soul-sucking conversations day after day, even to get her to participate in something easy and fun, just suddenly became too much. I don’t want to do that anymore. Like, ever. And here I was on vacation, with this stunning view across the entire north side of the house, doing the same stuff I do at home. Cooking, cleaning, and trying to to keep the family running as smoothly as I can by using everything in my psychological and parental arsenal, and sometimes coming up short.

Packing up for our return home was just as exhausting. I shoved her clothes in her suitcase just before it was time to leave and asked her once again to take care of her gadgets. Eventually my husband just shoved them in her suitcase, too, the end of a charger dangling out the side. She put on shoes, decided her stinky shirt was fine, and that was that. At least I had somehow gotten her to shower (okay I did the shampooing) and brush her hair (okay, I brushed out the week’s worth of tamgles) the night before, so at least she was somewhat presentable for the airport.

Still, despite the usual frustrations, this vacation kicked last year’s vacation’s butt. That attempt at a sight-seeing vacation was a big fail, and at least we learned something from that. Coming back to a place we’ve been many times, where personal hygiene and schedules don’t really factor in, where lying around in your bedroom and getting room service (from me) under your mosquito net is actually a good idea, is apparently a recipe for success for Maddie, and therefore, for our family.

My sister occasionally repeats a quote she once heard about being a mom: “You’re only as happy as your least happy child.”

Or as I like to say to my kids, “If you’re happy, I’m happy. Or at least, you won’t ruin my vacation.”