Getting Off the Waitlist

The first year it occurred to me to enroll my son in summer camps, I went to the community center in April. I congratulated myself on my advance planning as I pulled into the parking lot.

I am so on top of my game, I thought, as I grabbed my purse and headed inside. Will they even have the summer catolgue ready? I wondered. Oh well, if they don’t, they can just send me on my way and tell me when to come back. And then they will think to themselves, ‘Wow, what a together mom. She is so on top of her game. We should really get to work on that summer catalogue.’”

Much to my surprise, when I inquired about swimming lessons and camps for my three-year-old, the lady behind the front desk didn’t bat an eye.

“Do you have a catalogue?” she asked me.

“Umm…no.” Of course I didn’t. “Did you already make one?”

She looked confused.

“Here you go,” she handed me what looked like a daily newspaper.

“Take a look through here and see what classes you want. Then check the wall over there to see if the classes are still open or if you need to go on the waitlist.” She pointed to a wall behind me that was covered in a giant mosaic of lists.

I gulped. “Okay, thanks.”

After an agonizing thirty minutes of making up my mind and changing my mind and making lists and scratching out lists, I left the community center.

I enrolled Justin in the Mommy & Me 9 a.m. swim class that was still open because the water is freezing at that time. He was in Pirate Dance Camp not because I thought it sounded like a nice blend of masculine and feminine energy, but because it was one of the only camps without a waitlist. I suspected it would be an easier sell than Princess Dance Camp.

He was number 12 on the waitlist for Karate.

We were covered in goosebumps during swim lessons that summer. I cursed the bubbly 18-year-old instructor who looked thrilled to be taking an ice bath with us. Teeth chattering, I smiled at my son.

“Isn’t this fun?” I squealed.

“It’s freezing!” he replied while climbing all over me to get above the water.

It was a long two weeks.

Never again would I have the audacity to wait until April to plan for summer, I scolded myself.

That is why, this Monday, Mar. 14, the first day to register for summer camps, I will wake up an hour and a half earlier than usual. I will tiptoe around my house so as not to wake anyone. I will dress in layers and put on my warmest purple fleece sweatshirt. I will kiss my son good-bye while he is still sleeping.

I will stop at the coffee shop across the street before driving down Central Expressway to get to the by 7 a.m.

There, I will wait in line with all of the other overly eager and slightly neurotic moms. I will make connections with the ones who, like me, learned the hard way.  In solidarity, we will all sit on the concrete wrapped in blankets and sip our coffee. We will wait outside for an hour and a half until the doors open.

Once inside, giddy with excitement, we will sign our children up for afternoon swim lessons and camps with exciting names like Pre-Engineering with Legos or Journey through Deer Hollow Farm. We will receive our confirmation forms and be on our merry way. We will give each other high fives and congratulatory hugs.

And I will have redemption.