My eleven year old daughter is leaving today for a week at camp. Oh, sorry. My eleven-and-a-half year old daughter, because if you don’t add the ‘half’ then you will get an eye roll. And, sometimes, a hair flip.

I went to this same camp in the sixth grade and had so much fun that, as the school bus pulled away from the cabins on the last day, I looked out the back window and cried as the lyrics to Dan Fogelberg’s “Longer” danced in my head. The whole scene was like a bad, after-school special.

I know my daughter is going to have a great time. She is going to make new friends, have experiences she will remember forever and, so help me, none of those experiences had better include boys or someone is going to get hurt.

But, knowing she is going to have a fabulous week doesn’t mean I’m going to miss her any less. She has been to overnight camp before, but never for a week. Sure, there will be less arguing and we won’t run out of milk as quickly, but not kissing her forehead before she goes to bed each night is kind of going to make my heart hurt.

Of course, I knew she would feel the same way. Which was almost evident when I asked, “Are you going to miss us?”

And she replied, “Nope.”

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The kids and I went to pick up a pizza earlier this evening and as we waited in the crowded counter area, I looked down to see my son vigorously rubbing his nose.

I had seen this before. This was the booger rub.

I looked around for a napkin, but there were none in sight. I didn’t want to be standing among a group of people, who were picking up their dinner, and see a green glob on my son’s knuckle, so I nudged him and quietly requested, “Hey buddy, why don’t you wait until we’re in the car to do that?”

And, not realizing that this was something he should do with a bit of modesty, he loudly replied, “You mean I should wait until we get in the car to pick my nose?”

Yeah, that’s right…and we’re going to pass on those green peppers.

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A couple of days ago, I sat down with my husband and kids to watch an Oprah rerun featuring Dr. Oz. He was discussing the diabetes epidemic in America.

I wanted my 11 year old daughter to see the show, because she loves food that is horrible for her. If I let allowed it, she would eat doughnuts for breakfast, bologna on white bread for lunch and chicken nuggets for dinner. With extra dipping sauce.

I don’t let her. I buy plenty of fruits and vegetables, whole wheat bread and pasta and she is not allowed to drink soda unless it’s a special occasion or if she sneaks one at a friend’s house. Don’t think you’re fooling me, girl. She is in the 50th percentile for height and weight. She is healthy. For now.

I wanted her to see that, given the opportunity, she needs to make her own good decisions about nutrition. I don’t want her to end up like me. I can’t even keep sweets in the house because I have no self-control. If only I was as obsessed with laundry as I am with sugar. No one would ever run out of underwear.

My eight year old son loves all food. My mom can’t believe it. Really, it’s like a grandparents dream come true. He never asks what’s for dinner, he just sits down and starts eating everything on his plate. He weighs 42 pounds, so I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to bulk up.

My boy craves pine-nut hummus and red peppers. He eats blueberries and raw veggies like they’re going to stop harvesting them. Given his congenital heart disease, this is a good thing.

At the risk of losing readers who are also PETA members, I will admit that I have long said that I would be a vegetarian if someone else did all the food prep. All that washing and cutting…ugh.

Although I think I could survive without meat, you can’t deny that it is awfully easy to make chicken. Boiled chicken, grilled chicken, baked chicken, rotisserie chicken hot and ready for consumption on the end-cap of my local grocery store…

I don’t think my son would complain if I put him on a vegetarian diet either. Of course, he enjoys chocolate too. He’s a lot like his mother.

Which can only mean one thing.

Someday, he is really going to like beer.

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My family is Catholic and that means that summer festivals are upon us.

If you have never been to a church festival you are missing out. There are rickety rides that are run by slightly inebriated carnies and there are games where your kids can walk away with fine prizes like Chinese yo-yos and rubber ducks. Together these will only cost you twenty tickets!

There are local musicians, beer trucks, bratwurst and gambling. The air smells of cotton candy, bug spray and sweat. Mmm.

And, when it gets late in the evening, there are teens and preteens running about. Well, they’re mostly just standing in large packs and their hormones are doing all the running.

As much as it pains me to say this, my daughter is a preteen now. I keep telling her to stop growing up, but she won’t listen to me. Typical.

My daughter is such a good kid, and is so studious and smart, that yesterday, I heard my husband tell her to, “Put down your book and play Mario with me!” but, she is still a girl. I know for a fact that she has a crush on Taylor Lautner. I totally caught her watching The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lava Girl the other night.

Given these facts, I don’t think I was out of line when I questioned her the other night about her intentions when we visit these festivals. I sat her down and asked, “So, are you going to be walking around in clumps of giggling girls this year? Are you going to be following the boys wherever they go?”

She replied, “Why would I do that? If you follow the boys around you just get less time on the rides.”

See? I told you she was smart.

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