Slappy Camper

On sisterhood, envy, and foam marshmallows

For Christmas last year my sister Caroline’s family gave my five-year-old, Sophie, a board game called Slappy Camper and an IOU to take her camping. To play Slappy Camper, each person gets a plastic twig with a foam marshmallow at the end and a flat camper card that looks like an illustration you’d see affixed to a Nalgene bottle. You spread out camping equipment between the players. One player turns over a card from the deck. The first person to slap the matching piece of equipment with their marshmallow places the piece onto the grid of their camper van. Once an item is positioned, you can’t rearrange its placement. Large items, like a canoe, won’t fit if you don’t plan ahead, and in the end, one-square pieces, like a canteen or flashlight, help fill in the lone remaining squares. The first player to fill every square wins.

We were not a family that went camping growing up, but arranging suitcases was Dad’s art. Standing in the rental car lot, he’d rub his hands together and exclaim, “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with here,” as if the trunk were a blank canvas and each piece of luggage were a paint color. At last, he’d stand back and call us over to admire his masterpiece. “Not bad, huh?!” he’d prod.

Dad also deemed himself The Volume-Meister for his ability to choose the size dish that would perfectly house leftovers. An overstuffed container of squashed mashed potatoes is not a thing in my parents’ fridge. Nor is a small mound of stuffing sitting in an overly spacious Tupperware palace. Not on The Volume-Meister’s watch.

Mom, too, has a flair for exactness, although she does not need a title or a tap dance. A well researched course of action with back-up plans for the back-up plan is her reward. Maps, manuals, and measuring cups are her materials. To Mom, arriving first and waiting is the ultimate relief, and relief is the ultimate success.

I guess it makes sense, then, that the part of Slappy Camper I take most seriously is positioning the items within my camper’s grid. Midway through the game, I note my internal buzz. The stakes feel high as I lock a cooler into place. A poorly placed fishing rod could cost me. I hear my husband in the kitchen and hope he’ll walk by and notice my camper’s organization, the logical positioning of the sleeping bag in the cavity above the driver seat. It’s not even winning that I care about. I’m trying to beat the shame of poor planning.

My junior year of college, I arrived in Florence to study abroad with only pants, long sleeves, and sweaters. I packed for fall, because it was fall semester, and I envisioned crisp mornings with cappuccinos. On the day of orientation, I wore cream corduroy pants, a brown turtleneck, and rust orange suede ballet flats. By the time I made it off the bus and up the cobblestone hill to class, my hair was wet with sweat because it was August and 90 degrees. Checking the forecast hadn’t occurred to me. One of my first thoughts was I can’t let Mom and Dad know. Then I used their credit card to shop the summer clearance racks.

My sister Caroline inherited our parents’ knack for planning. Her brain makes lists and plots sequentially. She researches. If she’s the navigator, she doesn’t lose herself in existential musings while staring out the window. She focuses on the map. She doesn’t miss the exit. You can count on her to be ready early or on time. She gives Mom relief.

Growing up, our parents steeped our needs and aspirations in their attention and care. What I needed felt so different from what my sisters needed, though. The salty, vinegary-ness of pickles perfectly satisfies my craving for intense, concentrated flavor. Instead of eating a few pickles, I wanted to drink the juice. Instead of applying to become a camp counselor at the park district, I started Kool Kamp and turned our backyard into a two-week kids camp. Kool Kamp lasted eight years.

Dad kept a ledger of Kool Kamp’s annual revenue, expenses, and counselor payroll to calculate gross and net profits. On “Beach Day,” he climbed out of a second-floor window, onto the roof, armed with garbage bags of inflated beach balls because beach balls falling from the sky was my vision for the day’s grand finale.

Mom’s offering was an obedient surrender. She likes safety. Order. A clean house. She also likes it when her kids are happy.

“Just tell me exactly what you need me to do,” she said, knitting her eyebrows together and emphasizing exactly.

Mom assisted with snack distribution, administered bandaids, and prayed for no serious injuries. On “Spa Day,” she poured smoothies into cups with neon crazy straws. I knew she wanted camp to be all that I wanted it to be because she helped me make it so. I also knew she wanted it to be over because she counted down until the day she had her house back. Understandably.

“Your parents are saints,” adults claimed in response to the creative freedom Mom and Dad fueled. They weren’t wrong. The lengths to which Mom and Dad went were unique. I also knew I pushed them.

Caroline organized her bedroom to relieve stress. She read the packing list for field trips ahead of time and gave advance notice of her needs. There is home video footage of her opening a long-sleeve white t-shirt for her birthday and gushing, “Ooooooh, this is exactly what I wanted!” I asked my parents for a world that rained beach balls.

“Mary and Kathy” was a game of make-believe that Caroline and I played many years prior to Kool Kamp. I can’t remember who was Mary and who was Kathy, but Mary and Kathy were best friends and mothers to young children. We constructed a pregnant belly from a bike helmet, looping a string through the ventilation holes. Whoever was pregnant suspended the helmet from their neck. Our youngest sister’s cotton Gymboree dresses doubled as our maternity shirts.

Today, Caroline and I are married to best friends. They’re both named Marc, my Marc and her Marc, Marcos Perez and Marc Nelson, Rez and Nellie.

Caroline and Marc, the Nellies, live down the street from us in the same tiny town where Caroline and I grew up, about an hour north of Chicago. Our kids go to the same school. We share a nanny. We run into each other at the park and the farmers market. So much about our life now feels like a tribute to Mary and Kathy. 

This summer, the Nellies made good on their promise and invited Sophie to join them camping in Wisconsin. The day before the trip, I pushed open the front door of their mid-century ranch to drop off my kids for shared babysitting. The entryway was organized with camping gear all ready to go. Sophie and Noa slipped off their shoes and ran towards the kitchen.

A shadow of a thought lurked in my consciousness, as if the disassembled tent neatly tucked in its carrying case, the stack of duffle bags and plastic bins, and the cooler, in position, ready for filling, were all taunting, Look. Your sister is better than you. You’re not good enough.

Growing up, Caroline was beside me every night before Kool Kamp, arranging craft supplies and sorting the campers into groups. She put up with the status of “Kaitlin’s little sister” in the classrooms of teachers who remembered my firstborn, overachieving, studious striving. Why can’t I let Caroline have the good-planner accolade, the you’re-so-on-top-of-things gold star? 

About a month prior to the camping trip, Caroline, our cousin, and I co-parented our six children at our grandparents’ lake house. We spent the day of departure cleaning bathrooms, stripping sheets, running loads of towels, and vacuuming. I double and triple swept endless fine sand from the bedrooms, worried my cleaning wasn’t up to Gramma’s standards. By the time we loaded the cars and pulled out of the driveway, I was limp.

I texted my parents to let them know I was starting the four hour drive home. Mom responded with many heart emojis. Then she sent a follow-up question.

“You did all the closing things I’m assuming?”

Of course we did all the closing things. Would you ask Caroline if she did all the closing things? Do you think I’d leave without doing my share of the closing things? I reversed out of the driveway. Deeply rooted pine trees reached like spires to puncture the clouds.

My therapist says that Mom simply needed the answer for herself, for her own relief. That it had nothing to do with me. Mom assures me my therapist is correct. Caroline says Mom would definitely send her the same message. My brain still has a difficult time understanding that this is true.

The morning of the camping trip, Caroline went to work. I cleared my day to focus on making my brain focus. I checked and double checked the contents of Sophie’s backpack. I took a picture of the mound of Sophie’s sleeping bag, pillow, and backpack as if I were playing dress-up, a game of Mary and Kathy where I was pretending to be an Organized Adult.

As the 3:15pm departure time drew closer, my mind conjured an image of the Nellies’ car sitting idle in our driveway, waiting, as if it were a threat.

At 2:30pm, Sophie and I sat on the couch reading together. At 3:00pm, we moved to Adirondack chairs on our front lawn. The sun beat down. The breeze shook the branches of the maple tree overhead. A train rushed by. Sophie rolled in the grass.

“Just feeding Carter!” Caroline texted at 3:19pm. There was really no reason for an exact departure time. Camping was a present the Nellies were giving Soph, and Caroline was feeding her baby. Still, a chemical reaction of relief and pride fizzed within me because, growing up, being completely ready and waiting was a flex of accomplishment.

Sophie ran over to the tree swing and wound the rope tightly, around and around, and then sat on the cedar seat. This was my first time sending her off for a weekend adventure. Until now, if travel separated us, it was my travel. Sophie let out a happy wail, her hair whipping, as the ropes of the swing rapidly untwisted. I felt nauseous. How would she do at bedtime, snuggled into her sleeping bag next to her cousins?

Caroline’s car approached. I darted to grab Sophie’s things.

Caroline popped out and realized that to install Sophie’s carseat with the rear anchor, she had to unpack the trunk. Piece by piece, she offloaded the items. Then she showed me a feature that makes the car seat installation extra secure, which she’d learned from watching YouTube videos about our specific travel car seat the night before. Five years into parenthood, I’ve never watched a car-seat-related video. 

I kissed Sophie’s forehead, told her we love her, reminded her to be a helper, and kissed her forehead again.

“We can come get her at any point,” I assured Caroline with a tight hug. Caroline said they’d be mostly unplugged but would send periodic updates.

“Thank you, Bunny,” I whispered, using her childhood nickname and hugging her one more time, planting a kiss on her hairline, right above her left ear.

The car pulled out of the driveway. After a two-hour drive, Caroline and Marc would pitch a tent, cook over an open fire, pee in the woods, and sleep on the ground with my five-year-old, their three-year-old, and their nine-month-old. I’d spent an entire day packing one backpack. I walked into my house.

That night, we met friends at the pool. We drank a beer and ordered fries. Caroline texted a picture of Sophie and her cousin Ellie giggling on a hammock, over a bed of muddy leaves, in what can only be described as an enchanted forest. Two days later, the Nellies returned home with Sophie. Her hair smelled like campfire. They shared tales of the trip. Sophie and Ellie had put on a play and had walked a mile to the beach to dig in the sand. They all slept in a tent under the stars.

Of course, I saw what the Nellies were giving Sophie. All along, I saw what the Nellies were giving Sophie.

Why do I size my mound of a backpack, sleeping bag, and pillow against their Tetris of equipment?

Maybe I’m sensitive because Caroline’s strengths are more similar to our mother’s strengths, and our mother is my lived example of what a good mother is. Maps, manuals, and measuring cups are not my materials. My brainstorming begins with beach balls. I’m still learning that that’s okay.

After school drop off this fall, I jumped in Caroline’s car, and she drove us to a coffee shop. I asked if she really had enough time before work for my request.

“Well, I don’t know,” she smiled, “It depends how long my reading assignment is.”

We walked into the coffee shop. She sat down to read this piece. I ordered and delivered her latte. She kept reading. She finished. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Let’s go to the car,” she said, “I’ll feel more comfortable if I don’t feel like people are watching me.”

In the car, Caroline looked at me, eyes wide and wet, hands pressed together, and said, “The thing is, I could write something very similar about you about different traits.” She steadied her lower lip and added that what she remembers about getting ready for camping is how haphazard the preparation felt to her. Everything was set out Thursday morning, but it should have been ready Wednesday.

“But it took me an entire day to pack a backpack.”

“Well, packing for camping is stressful. And you were doing it for the first time. And you were also sending Sophie off for the first time. It was all a lot.”

Then Caroline reminded me of a mantra that my Marc uses for me. In moments when my harsh internal critic has me spinning, unnecessarily, Marc squares me off and puts his hands firmly on my shoulders. He presses down. Then he looks in my eyes and says, “We’re doing great.”

Caroline says ever since I told her about this, she finds herself repeating the sentence to herself throughout the day. We’re doing great.

We’re doing great. Try it: we’re doing great.

During our games of Slappy Camper, while I’m lost in my head, anxiously positioning a flimsy card with an illustration of a life vest, Sophie is relaxed in her adaptation of the rules.

“Oh, I already have a chair, Mom,” she exclaims with a smile, pushing the piece over to me, “You can have it! Yellow’s your favorite.”