My son has been begging to go to surf camp ever since he took a private lesson in Hawaii last summer. He's also been growing his hair out since September because he is under the impression that all surfers have long(ish) hair. For this reason, he looks like a ragamuffin. This state of disheveled appearance is not lost on us.
Today was finally the day that I could get him all registered for his coveted camp. Except that we registered him for a camp at the end of July into early August and that means that he absolutely must get D track next year. And since our school doesn't retrack until mid spring, I'm just going to have to sit around and wait. And stress. And bite my fingernails down to next to nothing. Because if he doesn't get D track, I will be pulling him out of first grade after he's been there for two days. Yep. He'll go to school for two days and then I'll be like, "Forget this. We're going to San Diego. Goodbye, first grade, see you in a week."
So let's all raise our glasses of sparkling cider (or whatever you're drinking) to the hope that he gets the track we want.
While registering him for this camp, I had to sign away the life of my first born. That's not even an exaggeration. I know you think it is because I may be prone to overdramatic hyperbole but I'm not kidding. There was one particular section where I promised that I understand that they will not be held responsible in the event of my son's accidental drowning.
So, apparently, I'm going to drop my newly seven-year-old off at camp, give him a kiss goodbye, and then worry for the next four and a half hours that he is accidentally drowning right that very minute.
On the flip side, I just secured a spot at a camp run by Christians with devotions and prayer and FIVE DAYS OF SURFING! The thought of an accidental drowning pales in comparison to the smile on my kid's face.