Mommy camp bites. Unless it's for Mommy.

My kids are anti-camp. They’ve done them; Jack’s done sports camps and Caroline has gone to a day camp at my old high school and they’ve liked them, but never loved them. So this spring, when I asked about camps, I got an emphatic “No!”

I never liked camp, either, so I can relate. It seemed like school to me, which means my school rocked or my camp sucked…never did figure it out.

Anyway, school got out and we did the amusement park for a day. Then we left for eight days of vacation. That means we are officially only on the fifth day of summer at home.

In those five days, Whit has played golf twice. Whit thinks summer is wonderful.

Me? Well…I’ve been with the kids. At Mommy Camp.

We’ve done snow-cone stands and made cookies. We’ve picked blueberries and gotten super soakers. We’ve been to the pool. Caroline got braces on her teeth. We’ve gone to the farmer’s market. We’ve had a zillion (not an exaggeration) kids over here for a mud obstacle course (don’t ask). We’ve played Set and Operation and Life and tic-tac-toe. We’ve read books and gone to parks and played kickball and soccer. We’ve watched movies and made pancakes and run errands. We’ve hosted a neighborhood slip-n-slide event.

IN FIVE DAYS.

I’m exhausted.

On Facebook, friends keep posting things about sewing labels in clothes and dropping kids at sleepaway camp and getting all their errands done by noon and having cocktails at 5:00.

What could I post? Here’s a sample: “Didn’t sleep more than 45 minutes at a time last night because of Whit’s snoring, Jack’s idea that sleeping is boring, Caroline’s nightmare and subsequent refusal to go back in her room and the diarrhea that struck the dog every hour. Finally pried tired and crabby children away from inappropriate television program this morning. Offered three fun activities that they hated. Listened to an hour-long litany on how this is the worst summer ever (since vacation, they note). Dragged them to the pool, got sunscreen in their eyes, watched them belly flop off the diving board and cry. Came home, made dinner, argued over bedtime and television and watched the clock until I could have a glass of wine. Punched my husband when he asked how my day was.”

Isn’t there a mommy camp FOR mommies? With pedicures and lunch and wine and good books and massages and friends? Can’t they drop me off somewhere at 9 and pick me up at 4?

A working friend said yesterday, “I’m too mean to be a stay-at-home mom.”

I hear you, sister.