The (not so)faithful correspondent returns

I'm back--did you miss me? Did you even notice? Shucks, people--sharpen those observation skills!

I have a good reason for letting the blog lapse for the past few days. And it isn't that Roberto was out of town, though he was--enjoying the excitement of the big city with its fancy-schmancy restaurants, its culture, its comfy hotel beds, while I was "enjoying" being the ultimate hermit mom. (We ate frozen pizza and I slept on the couch. The only culture I encountered was green and found in the back of the fridge. It may have once been a bowl of soup.) No, I blogged not because I was getting ready for camp.

Those of you who may be male or non-young women's organization-affiliated females may not fully understand the enormity of that last statement. You are perhaps picturing a slightly feminized version of Male camping. Male camping means taking a tent and some jerky into the wilderness. Pyromania is a recurring theme. Hygiene is disregarded to an extreme degree. Organization is minimal, and loud bodily noises are encouraged through a complicated rating system.

Young Women's camping is a whole 'nother planet. We start attending planning meetings in early January. A theme is carefully selected, and then the leaders blow through every penny of their budget finding just the right hair ribbons, bandannas, and poster board to express their excitement over the theme. Packing consists of 42 carefully labeled bins--each one containing precious cargo: skit costumes (6 bins. Except for the year when we made papier-mache giraffe heads; they required 10 bins all to themselves. The other costume articles took up 4 more bins and most of the back of a mini-van.), certification supplies (1 bin), journals and fancy pens (1 bin), banners (1 bin), Christmas tree lights (3 bins), etc. Songs are memorized. Skits are written and practiced to meet to Oscar-level standards. Endless conversations are held over whether the snipe costume for said skit should or should not include a feather boa . (Final decision: no boa, but the grass skirt is still under discussion.) Organization is the name of the game--from what ward cleans what area of the camp at what time of the day to which group of YCLs will make the cute signs for which bathroom. This is a serious thing, people. It only comes around once a year--we have to make it count!

Through all the preparations my part is relatively easy: I attend meetings and I sew. My machine and I bond, and my children forget what I look like without pins stuck to my clothes and tape-measure hung round my neck. I sew banners. I sew skit costumes. I sew doo-dads. I sew whatever needs to be sewn. Heck, I even sew what doesn't need to be sewn, and some things which almost certainly shouldn't be sewn.

Best of all--unless you ask my children, who have very little tolerance for anything which takes attention away from them--I get to sew costumes for the Commitment Hike. You've probably never heard of a Commitment Hike. It's an old stake tradition--going back to the days when it debuted during my fourth year of camp back when camp was held in Brother Brigham's backyard. Back then it really was a hike. Ward groups would set out, one by one at set intervals--no crowding, please!--and hike from station to station where scenes would be acted out, or stories told, or experiences shared. It was quite the experience. It was testimony building and tear-inducing . That's the way we like things at YW camp. A few years back, I have no idea when, since I wasn't living here then, the hike morphed into a play acted by the sixth-year YCLs--but no one got around to changing the name. So when I say I sew for our Commitment Hike, most people assume I'm sewing pink plaid shirts or embroidering puffy vests. Not so! Two years ago the Commitment Hike required a plethora of scripture-story costumes. We had a smashing Queen Esther, a sweet Mary, a pretty convincing Sarah. Last year I cranked out pioneer dresses and the aprons, bonnets, and accessories that went with them. This year . . . I'm not saying. The Hike is a closely guarded secret--we're all sworn to absolute secrecy on it.

So that's why I was incommunicado this week; I spent those four days taking advantage of my forced isolation from the world. I woke up each morning with a long list of things to finish, and by gum, I was going to get them done or die in the attempt. Cloth was washed, ironed, and cut. Patterns were altered and/or drafted. Seams were sewn. Buttons were attached. I yanked my serger out of its sulks and impressed it into service. I stitched from 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. every day. The baby got familiar with the view from his playpen. The older children refound their housekeeping skills. No obstacle was too big to meet, no task too small to obsess over. I jammed needles into my fingers. I went cross-eyed threading machines. It was a heroic performance by all involved.

We leave for camp in 14 days. I hope I survive until then.