The L Word

Liam's been going to summer camp in the next town over. He's been having trouble with one boy there--James, a rough kid, two years older than Liam. Their Dad drops them off wearing faux-gold chains and oversized football jerseys, and they punch knuckles to say goodbye. By comparison, Liam--Mr. Gap, Mr. Peace Train--is a sissy mamma's boy. Fine with me.

On day three of a three-week camp, James cornered Liam in the bathroom and told him if he didn't bring in $100 tomorrow he'd get his lights knocked out. Liam tells me this, crying in the backseat on the way home. "Will you give me $100??" He's begging me.

Instead, of course, I call the camp and tell them that either they find a way to prevent these kinds of isolating occasions or I'm pulling Liam out and want my money back. They tell me that they've had a few problems with James even in his own age group, and that they will separate the groups by age and keep a better eye on things. So, OK. Turns out that two days later they put all the kids back into one group--not that they mentioned this to me.

Friday I get a call to come and pick Liam up early. He got two bloody knees--one of them just a scratc h, but the other a deep gash. "What happened?" I ask the counselor? "He fell," she says. Kids fall. Later on Liam tells me that in fact James had shoved him off of a playground toy.

I spent the day yesterday fuming, composing this blistering letter to the camp director. Threatening, even, though that's not my style. When Liam woke up this morning I told him he wasn't going to be returning to camp--that I was sending them a letter telling them how disappointed I was that they couldn't handle James's aggressive behavior, etc.

"Um, Mom?" Liam says, still half asleep. "Actually, it didn't happen the way I said it did."

Turns out he really just fell off the playground toy. No shoving. Made it all up--including a fairly elaborate tale about how the camp counselor handled putting James in time out afterwards. Big fib--the whole thing.

"I'm really disappointed," I tell him. "I was just about to really holler at the camp people because of what you told me, and they would have felt really bad, and James would have gotten in trouble, and I would have been wrong to do it," I tell him. "I'm sorry," he says. "Why did you do that?" I ask. "I don't know." "What did you want me to feel?" I ask him. He thinks. "I wanted you to get angry," he says.

At James, right? Because he's been a fricking thug, right? Though not in this particular case. Or is it just a thrilling stab at recreating the landscape--a fun little trick kids pick up right about this age. Just trying to understand.

I have no ending. Haven't disciplined him. Just sitting here bumming out that next time he tells me something, all sincere and filled with detail, I have to pause and wonder. Sigh.