“He’s been a good helper,” a counselor says.
“Aww, he likes to help,” I say. “That’s good to hear.”
A few more parents enter the lodge, quickly gather items, and leave with their child. One little girl using a wheelchair is smiling when her dad lifts her up, throws her over his shoulder, opens their van door, and places her inside. It looks like a routine they have done a million times.
In a few minutes, Isaac is sitting inside our van, waiting to go home. He appears to be neither happy nor sad, just tired.
“He didn't eat breakfast Saturday morning, but he was a different kid after we went bowling Saturday. I think he became a little more comfortable,” Mandy says. She’s a college student with kind eyes who volunteered with Isaac during the respite weekend at Camp Courageous. “He didn’t want to stop bowling, so he stayed there for two hours with another counselor. I think he broke the camp record,” she says, smiling.
“Is he on a Special Olympics bowling team?” a volunteer asks.
"He bowls with students from his school," my husband says, laughing.
“I think he had fun,” Mandy says. “I think he had fun,” she says again.
We tell her the first time in a new situation is difficult for Isaac, but if he returns to camp, she will see a totally different kid.
Someone asks me to sign him out and she hands me a little plastic bag filled with paperwork. It tells us what he did during the 42 hours he was at camp because he cannot tell us himself.
Earlier in the summer, the camp director had given our family a tour of the place. It took a full hour to look at everything: the barn, the pond, the pool, the gym, the arts and crafts area, the sleeping quarters, the campground, and the place where campers eat and congregate. During the tour Isaac was mesmerized by the foosball table, basketball game, and the two-lane bowling alley.
Friday night at 7 p.m. we drove into the camp and saw five or six other families standing outside with luggage and pillows. I told Chris I was going inside to check in.
Chris pulled out Isaac’s suitcase and sleeping bag from the trunk and got the iPad set up so it could stream K98.5 FM, Isaac's favorite country music station. As directed by the camp staff, I had labeled every single item in his suitcase with his first and last name.
I told her no, and she said he was her favorite person. I pulled out the releases of information from my purse and handed them to her.
We walked outside and made our way to the sleeping quarters. Mandy asked Isaac to choose a bed, which he did. He chose one with a nearby outlet so he could charge his iPad. Another camper asked Isaac several questions and gave him fist bumps.
"He doesn't talk much," Chris said.
After we put a sheet on his bed and draped the black nylon sleeping bag on top, Isaac walked down the hill to the basketball court and began to shoot hoops. Henry grabbed a ball and said, “This court’s definitely not NBA regulation or even college.”
All of our boys tried dunking with varying degrees of success.
As we slowly drove away, we rolled down the windows and waved to him, but he didn’t wave back even though he briefly looked our direction. I was grateful he was calm and comfortable enough to stay.
There was no way in hell he would have stayed there had he not taken a tour weeks ago. The tour gave him a glimpse of what to expect.
As we traveled down the highway, a beautiful sunset painted pastels on the horizon, the Iowa fields in the foreground.
Then I say, “Who do I love?”
And he smiles and says, “Isaac.”
If he’s not talking to me or standing next to me, he’s shouting to Noah 739 times a day to wear jeans. “Noah jeans please yes!”
“You can see how effective those words are,” Noah told the camp counselor Friday night, pointing to his shorts.
Chris and the boys and I spent much-needed time over the weekend recharging. The last time Isaac spent the night elsewhere without his brothers or his parents was in January when he attended Special Olympics. Seven months ago. Having him gone for an extended period is like finally being able to sit down and enjoy a tall cool glass of water after months of trudging along in the desert, looking for an oasis.
It is hard to explain how much we simultaneously love him and need a break from him.
We stopped at Target on the way home and were able to look around -- not just cross items off a list, but really look. Saturday morning Chris and Henry watched the Iowa Hawkeyes practice at Kinnick Stadium. Noah and I slept in, ate carryout, read books, and enjoyed the silence. Chris and Henry brought fancy donuts home, and we cut them into fourths (not fifths) and sampled them all – and we agreed that the gooey salted caramel was the crowd favorite. I made a casserole and a grocery list. We went to the post office and chatted with a friend and I stripped the beds. I did all the laundry without worrying that someone would put the wet clothes in the dryer, including the delicates I didn’t want to be dried. We watched TV when we wanted, without Isaac’s interruptions or demands. We stayed away from the pool.
Saturday night the four of us ate dinner outside at a restaurant downtown, where we were able to relax and see the world the way most people do. For once, we didn't eat exactly at 6:00 p.m. There was no urgency to go anywhere, no schedule to follow.
For a day we felt like we had all the time in the world.
On the way home I ask Isaac if he wants to go back to camp again, and he mumbles something under his breath. It’s inaudible and unintelligible.
I pull out the report the volunteer gave me, the list of everything Isaac participated in at camp: brushing and grooming animals in the barn, creating a design on a t-shirt, jumping in the bouncy house, bowling, shooting baskets, playing mini golf, listening to music, eating at the cookout, riding the recumbent tricycle, swimming, and tree climbing. No wonder he looks exhausted, I think.
He does not tire easily.
“Did you have fun at camp?” I say from the backseat. He's sitting in the front like usual.
“Yes,” he says, with a tone that indicates he’s clearly annoyed by his mother's question.
I hear Mandy’s voice in my head. “I think he had fun. I think he had fun.”
I assume Isaac is homesick for his regular weekend routine – grocery shopping at Hy-Vee, a trip to Dad’s office, dinner at Culver’s -- and is wondering how he can squeeze them all into his schedule before Monday.
I pull out a handwritten Sunday schedule from my purse, one I wrote on lined notebook paper in bright blue ink. I hand it to Isaac. He reads it carefully.
A few miles down the road, Isaac turns toward Chris.
“Culver’s,” he says, pointing to the notebook. I hear a hint of anxiety in his voice. He wants to be reassured we are going, even though he sees it on the schedule.
“Don’t worry, we’ll eat dinner at Culver’s tonight with your brothers. We're going home first,” Chris says. “Don’t worry, Isaac. Don't worry.”
“Yes,” Isaac says.
I reach forward from the back seat and touch Isaac's shoulder.
"I'm happy to see you," I say. I think about snuggling on the couch the way we do several times a week, Isaac's head resting on my shoulder, our arms intertwined. I can't wait to have him home again.
He doesn't respond, which is okay with me. Isaac leans a little closer to Chris, looks straight ahead, and mile after mile, he watches the highway unfold.
I think about how important it is for him to do new things in a new environment with new people, for him to stretch and grow like my other boys. I think about how critical it is for the rest of our family to have the opportunity to go out to dinner at 7:30 p.m., hang clothes on the drying rack, and stay up late watching TV. I think about how wonderful it feels to wear shorts, sit down, and drink a tall glass of water.