Earlier today, I got a call from Mr. Z, who's on a four day trip with his middle school class to some retreat thingy in northern Michigan. Today is day two and, from the sound of his voice, methinks he might not make it to day three, let alone four. He had that Laura Petrie warble going on. Poor dude... I so know what he's going through. I told him to try to stick it out and that Friday would be here before he knows it... don't know if he bought what I was sellin', though.
I think he's fine during the day, when he's doing stuff -- it's the whole bedtime thing that's bumming his shit out. He's normally in bed by 9:00 and out by, say, 9:02. Up there, it sounds like they're staying up until 10:45 and, at that point, he's kinda missed his chill window. If he's up too late he goes into What the shit?! mode and gets all worked up into a lathery lather.
Of course now I feel guilty as fuck and feel like I should've told him I'd come pick him up. If you'll remember, and even if you won't, my parents first sent me off to camp, for four weeks, when I was a wee lad of 10. I cried for about the first two weeks and then quickly transformed into the emotionless husk I remain today. Granted, four days is NOT four weeks so I guess I'm not as heartless as my parents were. (And it's official... I will never get over that episode in my life.)
The key is that he can't lose his shit in front of the other kids or he's fucked. Seventh grade is a bizznitch and those fucking zit-bedazzled hormonauts are ruthless. I did have him take an empty notebook on the trip and told him to keep a journal about all the goings on throughout the week. Should be an interesting read. (Maybe I'll at least get a coupla good posts out of it.)
I'm telling ya, the Old Lady and I are just too fucking nice to the spawnage. I think we've gotta work on being bigger shitheads so they don't have such a hard time getting the hell outta here. Note to self: be a worse parent. Got it.