The Hijacking of the Doldrums (and a Mother’s Sanity)
For many years January and February have been referred to as the doldrums around our house- where everything slows after the craziness and magic of the holidays. However, as my children get older and the city I call home continues to become inundated with new people, those doldrums that once were, now only last for a couple of weeks. And how does one recognize the end of the doldrums? Simple- Nashville summer camp sign-ups.
I have lived in the city of Nashville, Tennessee, for over eighteen years now. As people slowly caught on to how incredible the city of Nashville is, no one seemed to consider how this influx of people may affect local summer (day) camp sign-ups and the mental health of suburban mothers within a thirty-mile radius. The bottom line is- more people, less summer camp spots, which means a childcare conundrum.
When I first started to participate in this local ritual, camp sign-ups were in March. This seems doable. Think about it- mothers all over are fresh off of the hustle and bustle of holidays where they’ve been bending over backwards making sure the magic of the season is perfect with traditions in place, lights strung ever so carefully, Santa pictures scheduled with outfits coordinated, presents thoughtfully picked out for each member of the family (and extended family), teacher gifts checked off the list, and ornament swaps accounted for throughout the month of December. These mothers’ energy and bank accounts are typically tapped out through the month of January and February, making March a much more reasonable time to mentally and fiscally prepare for what I call a little taste of hell.
Now, summer camp sign-up does not discriminate. It is a challenge and a necessity for all mothers (and a few fathers), working or non-working, especially as we raise our children in a screen happy society. It also must be pointed out that over seventy-five percent of mothers in our nation are employed full time while also carrying the load of invisible labor that is done in the household, the main one being primary coordinator of schedules. So, it is typically up to us to make sure our children are entertained, structured, and active throughout the down time as best we can. And each year, as our city became busier and more crowded, I have noticed summer camp sign-ups slowly and very sneakily pushed back to the second week in January. We have barely recovered from the most wonderful time of the year, and we are expected to know exactly what our children will be doing six months from now. It is almost comical. Let’s be honest, no one truly does know what they’ll be doing six months from now, so mothers everywhere around town prepare to willy-nilly sign up for the coveted camps just to ensure they have a spot so their children aren’t sitting at the house stuck to screens or saying “I’m bored” on repeat while we attempt to work or do our seventy- sixth load of laundry for the week.
It must be said, I completely recognize that these are problems of a very privileged society, and that there are so many who would love their biggest problem to be attempting to get a summer camp spot, but it also must be pointed out how absolutely insane it has gotten and how for a few days in mid-January the mental sanity of Nashville mothers is completely hijacked by certain camps and/ or schools.
For this Sunday Short Story, I will use a specific example (but will refrain from naming) of my husband’s beloved high school alma mater. We are avid supporters, and to this day, my husband loves his high school more than most. Sometimes, it is a little strange to me how much he loves it, but to each his own, right? The racket around town starts a few days before sign-ups are to begin. Group texts go out, reminders are set, and anxiety sets in. The typical questions are bounced around from cell phone to cell phone all across the city to and from mothers of every age group:
“Do you think the site will crash again this year?”
“What do you have planned for the week after July 4th?”
“Does anyone know what our school’s summer football practice schedule is so we can plan?”
“I hope I don’t get waitlisted.”
“Why is there not a separate sign up for alumni or returning campers?”
“Did they raise the cost of extended care and fun with water camp?”
“Is full payment really required right now?”
“I am not even signing up for anything, it stresses me out too much.”
The day finally arrives. Alarms are set. Nine o’clock in the morning is official “go time”. Mothers all over sit by their computers, whether at the dining room table or the corner office in a downtown building. They are ready. And then it happens… for the fourth year in a row, the site crashes because so many schedule crazed women (and maybe a few men) around the city are flooding the server at one time. Cell phones ping with more texts:
“WTF? I can’t sign in. Are you in?”
“Are y’all seeing the same thing? This spinny thing keeps spinning.”
“If little Billy doesn’t get into All Sports Camp again this year, he’s going to cry for a month.”
“Y’all, I give up.”
“Did you see the last email?”
And there it is- the dreaded email from the camp director saying that sign-ups are moved to noon in order to fix the crashed server. On one hand, I feel sorry for the guy. Women all around town want to track him down and rip him a new one. On the other hand, I want those women to find him. Maybe I’ll find him? Still- you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to sit on the other end of that screen, receiving the emails from the frustrated women around town.
Noon it is. Lunch meetings and plans are immediately rearranged. I personally push a meeting to one o’clock and have to explain to the man I am meeting with that camp sign-ups changed last minute, and it is out of my control. Thankfully, he has five children and understands the stress of it all. His wife was probably doing the same somewhere in the city.
Twelve o’clock rolls around. My stomach growls with a mixture of anxiety and hunger, as I await my pushed lunch meeting and the entry for camp sign-ups. Another batch of texts start dinging my phone.
“Are you in?”
“Wait I’m confused. Now it says six-thirty. Are sign-ups at noon or six- thirty?”
“Damnit I have a six o’clock work dinner.”
“I have an anniversary dinner! I guess I’ll be doing camp sign-ups at the dinner table. Hope the waiter’s not offended.”
“I hate this! I give up.”
I slam my computer. I think about how the local liquor stores must see a steep increase in revenue on days like today. Maybe they’re in cahoots? I also think about the husbands who have no clue what’s happening to their hijacked wives and are blissfully ignorant to what they are going to come home to. I take a deep breath, grab my purse, go to my lunch early, and consider whether ordering a margarita would be in good form or frowned upon.
I wrap up my afternoon, and head to pick up my children from school. We stop at the house for a quick change of clothes, then rush back out the door to get to basketball practice across town. Dodging the “New Nashville” traffic, we arrive with one minute left to spare as I usher my daughter in to prep for the riveting second grade basketball game she will have in a few days. I sit in the car for most of practice and go back over the latest emails sent from the camp director, making sure I haven’t missed a change with sign-up. Six-thirty it is… six-thirty we think… six- thirty we hope. I wonder to myself if the director is in hiding somewhere in this bustling city.
Basketball practice ends, and I return to battle the “New Nashville” traffic going home. We are in direct rush hour, five o’clock bumper to bumper. I think of all possible alternative routes, but no matter what, this jam-packed city will have us home around six even though I am only three miles away from my house. I settle in and give gratitude for the thirty-minute window I should have to prepare for sign-in and sign-ups.
When I finally arrive home, it is a frenzy of homework, chicken nuggets, and meltdowns over a Roblox game. Someone has been sent to their room, and the aging dog has thrown up in the corner. An occasional scream or cry is let out from some edge of the house, and basically, it’s a typical Tuesday night shit show. In the middle of the tornado that is daily life, I am there, locked in at the dining room table ready to sign up the second the clock strikes six-thirty.
The moment of truth arrives, and by some miracle on Earth, the saying “third time’s a charm” proves to be true. I lean my head back and thank the heavens above as I hear my daughter cry about some dirty sweatshirt from afar. I am filled with both gratitude and scarcity (an odd combination) as I rack up as many summer camps as possible. For twenty minutes I black out and throw in basketball camps, cheer camps, a random water camp, and probably something my child has no interest in but by God is going to like come July 21. Done. Complete. Check. The final texts start streaming in:
“I got in!”
“I’m waitlisted on three.”
“One child is in, two are waitlisted for their top spots. What am I going to do?”
“Does anyone have a sitter for the summer?”
“Look at this picture of my family sitting at dinner and me on a laptop. How crazy do I look?”
“All my money just went to camp.”
“Does anyone want to start a camp with me?”
“I threw my jacket off because I started sweating so bad. It’s too stressful. Or maybe it’s menopause. Are we old enough for that?”
It is done. I am done. Somehow, I survived the hijacked day. I pressed on through the schedule changes, the emotional whiplash, and laptop glitches. By seven o-clock I feel like I had lived thirty lives, and all I want is a long, hot bath and my bed.
I guess there really is no major point to this story, except to shine a light on how ridiculous it all is. While the entertainment and care of our children are needed, necessary, and appreciated, could there be an easier way to this all? Maybe it’s to remind people that if you run into a woman or parent who seems strangely and excessively stressed during the middle of January, give them a little grace because most likely they’re having a camp sign-up day and their minutes, seconds, sanity, and bank accounts have been hijacked. They’re just trying to survive the next forty- eight hours. There is one thing I am willing to bet on, though. I bet there’s not a woman in charge of any of it.
I suggest a binder like this one for your house, in case someone else has to be in charge of any sign-ups. We call it our “red folder” or “If I die folder” where all passwords (like camp sign-ups) and important documents are found. I just ordered a new one here.
When having a stressful or hijacked day, Nashvillians love to visit Bucca Reflexology. Personally, I think all summer camps should partner with local businesses to help relieve the stress of all organizing parents during sign-up week.
The most peaceful place to me, where I can get all my stress out, is Fahrenheit Yoga in Nashville. Everyone from locals to tourists love to get their zen on in their studio.
When sanity is hijacked, some people just prefer to relax and watch a movie or listen to some good tunes. Revisit the incredible 2013 documentary, Muscle Shoals, and do both at the same time. It’s a classic and can be streamed on multiple platforms. I did it just the other day, and it did not disappoint!