Summertime and the livin’ is easy. You know that old Gershwin song? Summer brings a glorious freedom from certain rules and routines. Summer brings camps, camp food, new experiences, new friends, new ideas. This freedom can also create new worries. Parenting worries.

When my boys were little, they had tummy troubles. Their problems were so serious that for a time, their gastrointestinal systems turned our world upside down. We made some drastic changes in our family, including the way we eat. They are older now and their digestive issues have been solved, but they still eat differently from most of the children around them. For the most part, they’re used to it. When we’re out of the house, however, our family’s eating habits often provoke some grumbling. “Why do we have to be the weird family, mom?” When my sons complain, I fret, replaying a tired old tape in my mind. Am I being too strict? Am I too fixated on food? Could they go off the special diet and be okay?

Sometimes it seems like everyone lives on Planet Normal except us. Does that sound familiar? I want to tell you a secret. Everyone I know worries about their kids. Everyone. Granted, the worries are not all the same. And there are some worries we’d gladly trade for others. But I need to remind myself when I get into a pit of mommy despair that I’m not alone. We’re not alone. You are not alone. As parents we are concerned about the varied challenges our children face, and many of us—more than we realize—worry about the same things! There’s no shame in it. It’s in the job description. But what’s so hard is that there are rarely pat answers. What’s right for our family may not be right for yours. What works for my children may not work for someone else’s.

The summer months bring an invitation, or the motivation, for our children to travel, possibly for an extended period of time, Away. From. Us.

My tween just left for summer camp. I wanted him to go, I was happy for him to go. But I have to be honest. I’m also sort of freaking out. He is away for awhile this time and I can’t help it. Call me crazy, but I really want to know…. what is he eating?  What will the camp food be? How will his digestive system handle it? What kind of choices will he make about food when he’s away from the family?

My well-intentioned friends are trying to convince me that it’s fine, that he’s fine, that his health will be fine. Their words echo in my head:

“What an accomplishment!”
It’s true; he was more than ready. And this isn’t the first time he has been away from home. He has been on lots of overnight trips, and scouts camp, too. He can do this.

“It’s great for our kids to meet new people and have new experiences!”
Absolutely. It’s easy to hang within our comfort zone of friends and activities. Ron and I try to expand their horizons, but our kids still live and socialize within a pretty insulated bubble.

“You won’t believe how much he’ll grow up during this time.”
I believe. I blinked my eyes and he grew 10 pounds, 4 inches, and 2 shoe sizes. As I helped him pack his trunk, he said: “You’re really babying me, mom. I’m going to be fine.“ Ugh.

“It’s good for them to be away. Parents can hover too much.”
Yes, indeed. Parents can, ahem, hover.

I’m realizing that a child’s first extended trip away from home is also a milestone for moms—recovering, hovering moms who run daily interference with environmental toxins and non-food food, yet understand all too well that their children need to live in the real world. I’ve been talking to myself nonstop about this, trying to channel my inner Louise to be more reasonable:

“He knows what to do. He will eat raw carrots, steamed broccoli, roasted chicken, and burgers without the buns.”
No, he won’t. He’s 12. Mom’s nowhere in sight. It will be a festival of processed wheat and sugar. He will eat Wonder bread, Lucky Charms, ice cream cones, pizza, and s’mores. He will be in gluten-induced opioid heaven. Aaaaugh!

“You can send special food with him.”
No, you can’t. It’s not fair to him. He’ll hate you for it. Remember all those birthday parties, when he was the only one eating his own pizza and cupcake? The special snack stash at school? When you’re a kid, it stinks to be different. You want to fit in.

“He has been eating well for years now. He’s strong. His body can handle it.”
Can you be sure?  Remember a few years ago, when he ate doughnuts, pancakes, and bagels for breakfast at his friend’s overnight birthday party? He returned home with dark circles under his eyes, grumpy, and lethargic. It took two days to return to normal.

“He will learn that how his body feels (and performs) is tied to what he eats. How will he learn to do this on his own? You can’t control his environment forever.”
Oh yeah. I remember this one. This is what led me to agree to let him go in the first place… and to sign up his 9 year-old brother, too.

Things I did not do:

• • Ask to speak with the camp’s food director.
  • Write a letter outlining a list of acceptable and banned foods.
  • Send a crate load of special foods.
  • Bribe my son.
  • Arrange for a secret video camera to be installed in the dining commons.

Things I did do:

• • Wrote a short note telling our son how much fun he was going to have, and how much we trusted him to make good choices. He knew what I meant.
  • Whispered a quiet prayer of gratitude.
  • Took a deep breath and let go.

You’ve probably gathered by now that what my boys eat is sort of a big deal to me. The reason I’m so worried is because, when my sons were babies, they had loose stools, bloating, and pain. All the time. Strange rashes would come and go. After meals, we’d see bright red cheeks and ears, often accompanied by whimpering and irritability. A long line of doctors told us that this was normal—“It’s just baby diarrhea”—and a few even suggested that I was overreacting.

I was oddly comforted that a few other babies in our playgroup were similarly afflicted. Time passed, and the GI distress became “toddler diarrhea,” again deemed normal by the next round of physicians, who seemed to care more that my son was eating, than what he was eating. When pressed, one doc recommended binding foods… you know, the ol’ BRAT diet (bananas, rice, apple sauce, and toast).

The BRAT diet didn’t work. I told myself that things are rarely as bad as we imagine… maybe I was catastrophizing. But I still had butterflies in my stomach. Something wasn’t right.

Ron and I had to figure things out on our own. We left our insurance network and consulted with doctors who didn’t dismiss our concerns. They performed thorough examinations, asked lots of questions, and ran a bunch of tests. That’s how we learned that our children had colitis and allergies. When we heard that these diagnoses were surprisingly common among children, it was no longer oddly comforting. It was, however, galvanizing. My boys were sick. I had to do everything I could to help them get well.

We started with food. Food is many things. We eat to live. We eat for sustenance and nourishment and pleasure. Food is social and shared. It is also wrapped up in ritual, tradition, habit, and comfort. I always knew those things. What I did not fully realize is that an alarming amount of what we eat is merely food-like—tasty, convenient, preserved, pleasantly colored and packaged—but it is not really food. It just takes up the space that is normally occupied by food. And it makes us sick.

So I changed what we ate. And it changed our lives. Our boys got better. The diarrhea, bloating, and pain went away, as did the food allergies.

Am I massively oversimplifying what happened? Yes.

Did we change other things, too? Yes.

But food was at the top of the lineup. I strongly believe that food is our first and best medicine. Food is big.

We received the first email from our son last night:

Hi Mom and Dad!
Sorry I wasn’t able to email you any other days. Duncan said no email until Friday. Camp is very fun! I signed up for many new things that I have never tried before! Also, I have a 22 caliber rifle bullet! I love you a lot!

Whaaaat? A rifle bullet? What does that mean? And what is he eating? Is he drinking enough water?

There you have it.

Summer camp has proven to be a rite of passage in the Habakus household.

All things considered, I think I’m doing pretty well.

Just one thing though. Nine is awfully young, don’t you think? We postponed our younger son’s camp session (and adventures with camp food) so he could play in a baseball tournament. Maybe we should wait a couple of years before we send him…

Louise realizes that the first year of summer camp can be a bigger deal for parents than it is for kids.