It’s suppertime, and we’re cooking and hanging out in the kitchen. #2 Son has his clothes in the wash. He’s leaving for a week at church camp, not just a regular old week of camp in the cabins, but rather a week spent on an island in the middle of Little Old Lake. He went last year and had a fantasatic time, despite rainy weather almost every day, despite soggy clothes and a canoe trip in a downpour, despite his own doubts that it could be anything other than tiresome and uncool.

And so I’m cooking and also glancing at the paperwork that came from camp, and I think, “I’d better fill out the medical form tonight so I don’t have to worry about it tomorrow.”

And that’s when I remember. This is the camp that requires a doctor’s signature on the medical form.

I am the worst mother ever.

So now we wait until tomorrow to see if there is any way they will either let me fax the form on Tuesday (because of course Monday is the 4th of July and we won’t be able to reach the doctor then) or bring him up two days late. I’ve left a message at camp, hoping someone will call me back before we drive all the way there. Is there any way they would still have last year’s form on file?

I repeat: I am the worst mother ever.

Making this all a little worse:
The people I have to confess this to are a colleague who is the camp director and a longtime family friend and former babysitter who is Dean of this particular camp.

Adding Insult to Injury:
While we were realizing this, I handed The Princess her dinner plate. She put it on the table and left it unattended while she got a drink. When we came in from the kitchen, Molly Dog was just finishing The Princess’ garden burger.

On the Bright Side:
At least I didn’t yet tell our long-term pediatrician that we are changing doctors, so even if I can’t get #2 Son into camp, The Princess will be able to get a form signed before her half-week session begins on Wednesday.

And giving her my garden burger really did have a penitential feel.

Updated to Add:
The phone rang at 10:05 p.m. It was the camp director. Mine was the third call he received tonight about a health form. He has a plan. A very clever plan. Tomorrow I bring the form, with all that I can fill out, filled out. On Tuesday, I have the doctor sign a form, then fax it to the camp.

Apparently I am not the worst mother ever. I’m just one of the three worst.