2. Diana
“This looks like vomit,” my ever-so-eloquent oldest daughter mutters.
Camila looks down at the plate I set in front of her on the counter as if it had called her a name and kicked her dog while doing it. So dramatic.
I suppress a sigh because I know Emiliana’s diagnosis has been hard on Camila, too.
For the most part, she’s been fantastic.
But it hasn’t been easy for my oldest to deal with her parents’ divorce while trying not to resent her little sister for taking more attention away from her when she most needs it.
So I reply with, “It’s scrambled eggs, Cami. It’s not like it’s something weird. Plus, you’ve had this before multiple times. And it’s good for you.”
She grimaces, poking at it with her spoon while her little sister slides onto the stool next to her.
“Can’t we do pancakes?” Emiliana whines, brows furrowed. “You used to always make us pancakes on the first day of school. It’s the first day of camp; isn’t that kinda the same? Can’t we just have that?”
This time, I can’t help my deep exhale. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m sure there’s more than one T1D friendly version of pancakes, but I haven’t had the time to research any options, which is why I went with a recent tried-and-true.
Guilt crashes over me like a tsunami because I should definitely be making more of an effort.
“Emi, please.”
Camila scoffs. “Careful, Emi. You shouldn’t bring up pancakes. She might blow up and throw the plates in the backyard.”
“I already apologized for what happened at the wedding and— Also, you are my child. I will react however I feel is appropriate if I think it is in your best interest, if it’s to keep you safe.”
She sighs, exasperated, and rolls her eyes.
“Aren’t you a little young for this type of rebellion? You’re nine. Shouldn’t this type of attitude start when you’re twelve or thirteen?” I shoot her a look, my hand on my hip.
“Whatever, Mom.”
Oh, god. The dreaded “whatever” phase every kid goes through. Though I never did; I never had the luxury. My younger sisters, however… they certainly enjoyed that time in life.
I suppress a wince as I remember the fights between my parents and my sisters, knowing that I should probably nip my daughter’s attitude in the bud before it ever gets to that.
Between the divorce, having all of us adjust to a different diet, and seeing me give her little sister extra attention, Camila has had to learn how to adapt in more ways than one.
It’s added an extra fun level to an already mounting mass of growing pains.
Patience. The goal is patience and balance. Be understanding, while also setting boundaries.
“Do not ‘whatever’ me, Camila. And if you don’t like your breakfast, you can go ahead and leave it. I’m not making anything special just because you’re still angry at me for the wedding.” Two days later. No one can hold a grudge like she can, apparently. “Please go finish getting ready for camp.”
With a huff, she pushes from the stool and runs out of the kitchen. When the door to the girls’ bedroom—the guest house’s guest bedroom—slams shut, I’m not surprised. I’ve learned to expect it. Could make a soundtrack out of it by now.
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair, tying it into a loose bun at the top of my head.
“Sorry, Mami. I’ll eat my breakfast.” Emi looks up at me with wide, dark, apologetic eyes.
She takes a generous bite of eggs and shoves it in her mouth, trying her hardest not to make a face. Honestly, I don’t blame her. Unless we’re talking about arepas, I’ve never been much of a breakfast person.
“Thank you, baby.” At least one daughter is drama free this morning.
I wish I could say our rocky start to the morning gets better, but it seems like hoping for the best is nothing more than wishful thinking, these days.
Between Camila purposefully delaying leaving the house in protest, having to go back because Emi left her lunch at home, and the wrong turn I take somewhere, we officially make it to camp twenty minutes after drop-off time is over.
As I drive up, the parking lot is empty and there are no counselors greeting parents and campers.
“Shit,” I mumble under my breath.
“Bad word alert! You owe the swear jar a dollar.” Emi calls from the back seat between peals of laughter.
I grimace, disappointed in myself. The jar was started originally for Rodrigo’s sake, who refused to understand that cursing in front of his daughters wasn’t the best example to set.
The only way I was able to curb his urge was to hit him where it hurt—his wallet.
And now I’m the one setting the bad example.
I sigh. “You’re right. Sorry, guys.”
“Where is everyone? Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Camila asks, skeptical.
“Of course.” Irritated, I park closest to the front gate. I look in my rearview mirror as I back up and exhale in relief when I see another car rushing into the lot. Another late parent. For some reason, it makes me feel better. Like I’m not the only one on this struggle bus.
“Are you sure, Mom?”
“Sorry, did the Sugar Maple Day Camp sign not make it clear?” I snap, and immediately regret it. “Yes, we’re in the right place.”
It takes a minute, but I eventually get them both out with their backpacks, double-checking once again they have everything. “You’re both good? Lunchbox? Swimsuit and towels? And Emi, do you have your phone on you?”
“Yes, Mami.”
“When do I get a phone? I’m older. I should’ve gotten one first.” Camila huffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest.
I sigh, not wanting to have this conversation again.
Patience. “You’re still too young. The only reason Emi has one is to monitor her blood sugar.
Because of her CGM. Remember? I explained it to you both?
Emi’s Continuous Glucose Monitor is linked to her phone so she and/or her teachers and camp counselors can reference it just in case. ”
The monitor is also linked to my phone, but I don’t want to remind her of it.
The whole thing verges a bit too much on Big Brother is watching you, and I don’t want to make Emi feel uncomfortable.
But if it weren’t for the monitor and her insulin pump, I probably wouldn’t be able to let her out of my sight. Thank god for modern medicine.
“You can play with my phone later, Cami,” Emi whispers to her older sister. I pretend like I didn’t hear her (partly because it’s not the time to get into it; partly because I find it kind of sweet).
“Okay, now that that’s settled, let’s go. I’m going to have to walk in with you to find the head counselor.”
“What?” Camila gasps. Both girls look up at me, horrified expressions on their faces. “Why? You can’t come in with us like we’re babies.”
Um, aren’t you my babies?
“Cami, I need to talk to the camp counselors and directors about Emi. They already know you have diabetes, and they said they’re able to take care of you if something happens, but I’d still like to go talk to their nurse.”
Emi looks down at her feet, blushing. My heart pangs in my chest.
“You know—”
“It’s Emi and Cami!” a girl’s voice bursts from behind us.
My daughters’ faces light up, turning in her direction. When they see it’s their friend from the wedding, they take off like rockets toward her.
“Well, well, well.” I turn to find Weirdo Chef—Michael—walking towards us, his daughter on one hand and her pink sparkly backpack in the other.
Looking smug and—it sucks to admit this—wildly attractive, he stops right in front of us.
“How the tables.” A wide grin spreads across his face.
“You’re late. Who’s the bad parent now?”
“Uh, if you’re calling me a bad parent for being late, then so are you. Seeing as, you know, you’re late, too?”
He shrugs, laughing once. In the morning sun, his hair is closer to a dark blond, silver-threaded on the sides.
As he smiles, lines form near his eyes, closer to green than they were the other night, crinkling in an annoyingly adorable way.
And right beneath his scruff, I catch two dimples flashing.
“Touché,” he says. “Still, it’s nice to see you not be Mrs. Perfect now.”
“It’s Ms. Perfect, actually.” Ugh, I don’t know why I said that.
That’s stupid. Who cares about the clarification?
“And anyway, we should probably stop chitchatting, don’t you think?
We’re late enough as it is.” I take both my girls’ hands and pull them toward the entrance, ignoring the easy way Michael whistles casually behind us.
Camila tugs on my hand, wanting to go to her new friend, but I drag her along. “You’ll see her in camp,” I mutter.
The only year I ever attended summer camp—a two-week overnight experience on the coast of Venezuela—my parents simply dropped us off and drove away.
I don’t know if it’s an American thing or a Hamptons thing, but as soon as we cross those front gates, the girls are taken to their designated cabins—small ones that look like they were purchased at the Home Depot, where they can leave their things in cubbies and change into their swim clothes—while parents are guided to a three-hour long orientation.
Three hours. And counting. Worst of all, since we were the last two parents to arrive, Michael and I are led to the back of the room and forced to sit together.