So I thought I’d send Rory to summer camp. And then I thought I wouldn’t. Because my kid and summer camp, not so likely to mix well.

But then the camp called and had a space available, and we’re reaching the stage where all day long togetherness, while I try to work and he tries to amuse himself, is not always going so smoothly. So I signed him up and took him off.

I should have known.

I did know, really. I’m annoyed that I wasted the money. He was never going to like it.

But I’m also kicking myself. When I first talked to the camp, I specifically asked about reading and writing. (I know, for summer camp? But you’d be so surprised how often it comes up.) The woman reassured me, oh, no, of course not, no reading necessary. This is outdoor camp. This is wilderness camp. Swimming, animal searches, hikes in the woods.

So what did they do the first day? A group story-writing project. And as one of the oldest kids, who got put in charge of the writing? Oh, of course.

When I walked out the door after dropping him off, I really thought about pulling the counselor aside and just mentioning his disability. And then I decided against it. I figured it was unnecessary. I was just being the over-protective mom, right?

Sometimes it feels like the space between being over-protective and being an effective advocate is just too small.