Finally, my kids went back to school. Each wrote lovely compositions about what they did this summer. Here’s mine
I call it “camp,” and not just plain camp, because it was the same morah at the same location where playgroup had been throughout the school year. It was even the same kids, although now they were called campers. Also, it cost a lot more.
The weird thing was that, with all the sameness, Yaakov cried every single day when I dropped him off. We couldn’t understand it. He loved Morah. He loved camp. He loved the other campers. Why did he cry?
I tried all my tricks. I walked him to the door. I walked him all the way in. I carried him all the way in. I carried him all the way in and left him crying in his morah’s arms.
Finally I asked him, “Yaakov, why do you cry every day when you get to camp?”
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