Grandpa Camp

My husband came out to the little house with his cellphone in his hand and a big smile on his face. I looked up from the computer. "Here," he said. "Look."

My dad had texted us a picture of our kids. They sat outside near some long grasses; Blake had lain his head on Sasha's shoulder; Sasha was laughing. "Love B&S," my dad had written.

I grinned at my husband and said, "Awww," and then noted that the kids must be obeying our injunction NOT TO FIGHT! while they're with their grandparents. Then he and I put our heads together and snapped a picture: one of those goofy cellphone self-portraits. "Love M&D," we wrote. My dad wrote back, "Sasha says u look cute."

For the last few summers – since I paled over the cost of summer camps, which must be booked for a solid week regardless of the number of hours a parent actually needs daycare coverage – my kids have spent a week or so at Camp Grandpa Harry. My dad has the same level of energy and enthusiasm as the children despite being nearly 70, so he makes a perfect camp counselor. (My calm, quiet mom is the Den Mother.) For a week the kids eat chicken nuggets and pizza every day and stay up late and sleep in late and swim in hotel pools and generally run around like wild people. My parents have taken them to every corner of Oregon, just about. This week they’re in southern Oregon, tromping through caves and Houses of Mystery and jet boating on the Rogue.

I always expect both the grandparents and the children to return exhausted, glad to be home, glad to separate, but that's never the case. They're happy. They giggle. Last year when they returned my husband and I fed them dinner and Blake sat in my dad’s lap while Sasha and my mom put their heads together, examining some small thing. My husband and I looked at each other. Huh. How about that. It’s like they’re the parents!