Letter to Camille: 12 Years Old

Happy happy birthday to you, sweet girl! Twelve years old – this is the last of your official “pre-teen” years. You’re a seventh grader now. A young lady.

You’re a very happy young lady to be minus one enormous pink cast.

What a long summer it has been. Loooooooooooooong.

The days don’t fly by so quickly when you’re holed up inside with a broken arm, unable to climb or swim or draw or write. When you first came home after having surgery on your arm in June, we started modifying our summer plans. We cancelled our trip to the lake with the Leonards; having you sit on the dock and watch the other kids swim just seemed cruel. We cancelled our trial membership at the neighborhood pool. You took over the recliner and began binge watching several seasons of Project Runway, but even a good reality TV show gets boring after a while.

You had been so excited for your week of 4-H camp at Rock Eagle this summer, but now we weren’t sure you should go. This was to be your special year as a senior camper, with privileges like zip lining, a high ropes course, sailing, and a night-swim. None of which you could do in a cast.

And I also had logistical concerns about how you would handle everything from carrying your tray in the cafeteria, to showering. Your Dad would be there as a chaperone, thankfully, but you wouldn’t be sharing a cabin and wouldn’t have the same schedules. You’d be on your own most of the time.

We left the final decision to you, and you decided to go. My mission became figuring out how to help you be independent at camp. We bought a waterproof cast cover for the shower and practiced taking it on and off (much harder than one might think!). We bought new shoes with no laces to tie, and spray-on sunscreen you could manage one-handed. We got travel shampoo bottles with pumps so you could get the soap out with only one hand. We bought a poncho so you could cover your cast if it rained.

And I began to think camp was a pretty good idea. You’d spent the previous weeks cooped up inside, dependent on us for everything. I was encouraged by your new “I can do this” attitude.

But I still felt little shivers of anxiety as I snapped this picture, and then watched you and your Daddy pull out of the driveway and leave for camp.

Thankfully, you were a pro when it came to those logistics, able to take care of yourself without needing much help.

But the overall camp experience was a mixed bag – you loved being with friends, but hated missing out, too. When your buddies were tackling the ropes course and zip line, you’d were assigned to a robotics class instead. But even that was a bust. “Apparently you need two hands to build robots,” was your report.


But the tough week hasn’t soured you on 4-H camp, fortunately. You and your friends are already making plans for next summer’s adventures.

Back at home, you received a sweet surprise in the mail. My cousin Emmie, beloved by all but especially by you, sent you a plush Rey from Star Wars, sporting a pink cast, and with a note that said, “Even Jedi get hurt sometimes.” No wonder everyone loves Emmie.

On your birthday, we met up with some family and friends for a special fondue dinner, and have plans to celebrate again with a weekend in Charleston and tickets to a show next month. Also, can I say how much I love that you and Lola will still wear wolf ears out in public?

But of all the gifts you received, I think the best came on the day after your birthday, when the surgeon said your cast could come off. The technician held up both pieces of the sawed-off behemoth of a cast, and asked if we wanted to keep it. The answer was a resounding NO.

This whole experience of having your arm broken, having surgery, the recuperation – it was pretty awful. It’s not something any loving parent would wish on their child. But at the same time, life has a way of injuring all of us at some point. We can’t control when or how that happens, but we do have some power over how we cope. You learned a lot this summer, and I believe you’re coming out the other side as a young lady with more empathy for others, a better appreciation for your renewed health, and a deeper understanding of your own strength and resiliency.

And then just like that, summer was over and school was beginning.

You got a fresh haircut. You tried on all your uniform clothes, only to discover that you’d outgrown ALL of them. You shopped for school supplies. You complained about the start of school, but secretly I think you were excited too.

I hope 7th grade is a good year for you – free of casts and full of fun. I can’t wait to see where it takes you.

I love you.



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