True story.

Henry has been playing a lot with a little girl this summer who, a few weeks ago, asked me to run with her because she “really needed to get a jog in,” as, of course, all seven year olds should. We tried one evening, but Henry pitched a fit–not because he wanted my attention to himself, but because he didn’t want to share her with me.

They are engaged. He likes older women.

This girl has been going to a camp with teachers who, shall we say, are not exactly in contention for Educator of the Year. Maria Montessori would implode to see their methods, which are hard to distinguish from fascism. Reaming out the kids, pressuring them, teaching with intimidation and the occasional smack on the leg. Telling a 6 year old she isn’t smart, which she might not be, but hey it’s summer, and in this country, kids only have to think from September to June.

In other words, it’s a real feel-good place, perfect for a carefree summer of enrichment.

So this little girl has been going to this camp for a few weeks, and in tears on Monday, she refuses to go. Surprising, isn’t it? She doesn’t have to go because hey, it’s summer, and hey, they’re a bunch of assholes at this camp.  Still, she’s upset all day, and because he’s already proposed marriage to his pal, Henry is worried about her.

Monday night, I’m outside with him, shooting baskets while he falls off his bike in the driveway. A classic mother-son bonding moment. He sees his betrothed pal down on the street, wearing her Crocs with her long hair down, and all of a sudden, I’m chopped liver.

She’s running laps.

Back and forth for about 20 minutes, she runs. After spending a day upset about Nazi camp, the girl, on her own, had just walked down her driveway to the street to run a 50-yard stretch until she felt better. It seemed to work. No one suggested she run. On impulse, the girl is out there running to feel better.

Until, of course, my kid starts chasing her laps in that charming/annoying way he stalks mirrors her every move. Then she’s pissed again, and I’ve got a mopey little boy, but let’s not let any of that distract from the real point here.

The takeaway lesson is this: Nazi camp is bad, and running is good. Running in Crocs? Not so good. She’s been advised to wear her sneakers next time.