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 eight year old son has many oddities, however none is quite as evident as his fascination with skin. He loves to touch people and the older, the better. The upper arm flab of elderly women is his clear favorite.

My boy has had sensory issues from the start. As an infant, he hated to be held and only due to countless hours of occupational therapy did that change. Now he can’t keep his hands off of people.

He has always been able to obtain this tactile fix because he is so small, but what people don’t realize is that he’s really just a miniature man. The lady who lets him climb all over her lap forgets that he is an eight year old in the body of a toddler. The kid gets away with murder, I tell you.

We have recently started some new therapy. We brush his skin, we do joint compression and other exercises which are helping him keep his hands to himself. As he always has been, my child is a work in progress.

Most of our friends and family know they have to set boundaries and I do my best to keep him away from bikini clad women. Though, that isn’t hard because I’ve been doing the same thing with my husband for over 15 years. Practice makes perfect, I always say.

We tell my son that everyone has a bubble and that he is not allowed to get close enough to pop it. I sound like I’m off my rocker when I see him eyeing a smooth shoulder or a college co-ed in short-shorts and I act preemptively saying, “Bubble. Bubble! BuuuuuuBBBBBBLE!”

Of course, there are times when he’s bound to fall off the wagon and we are quick to tell him that it’s not okay to invade someone’s space. But, there are still occasions when, oh…let’s say, he might lie on top of our friends’ eight year old daughter. Hypothetically.

Okay, not hypothetically.

We told him that it was unacceptable for him to lie on top of his friends and that you can never touch a girl without permission. This is when his big sister chimed in and said, “Yeah! You can go to jail for that!”

Which is why I shouldn’t have been surprised at my son’s reaction when we ran into my brother-in-law the other night. My brother-in-law the police officer.

At least we know my kid has one redeeming quality…he is honest to a fault. Which was clearly evident when he pulled me down to his level and whispered, “Hey, Mom. You should probably tell him that I lay on girls”.

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