It started with a crumpled permission slip stuck to a banana peel. $215 for a two-night “nature discovery experience” somewhere east of Eugene, where the air smells like cedar chips and the cabins have names like “Loon’s Nest.” The form had a weird coffee ring on it, which I don’t remember making, and a note in Sharpie: “Return with payment by Friday.” It was Thursday. Of course it was.
I’m already two weeks behind on life admin and emotionally limping after that third date disaster (the one with the dog and the legal theories), and now I’m supposed to manifest $215 and the energy to pretend this is fun? It’s not. It’s an invoice disguised as an opportunity.
Then the school drops this side note: “Encouraged (but not required): student fundraising to build community spirit.” Oh good, nothing says community like standing outside a grocery store with a folding table and a box of store-bought cookies pretending you know what “from scratch” means.
We set up at Fred Meyer because that’s where I panic-shop. Also, there’s foot traffic. My son made a sign that said “Send Me to Camp!” in bright blue marker. He added a drawing of a tree, which looked like a flaming cactus, and spelled “nature” with a capital H.
The first hour, no one made eye contact. Then someone gave us a dollar and told my son he had “an honest face,” which made me weirdly emotional. Someone else asked if he was raising money for Bible school. He told them it was “just for survival.” I didn’t correct him. Felt accurate.
Then a woman in yoga pants leaned in and said, “You should sell your stuff on Etsy. That’s how we paid for our daughter’s SAT prep.” I nodded like I might, even though I haven’t handmade anything since a traumatic Pinterest incident involving mason jars and glitter glue.
We made $16.85 and a Canadian nickel. My kid asked if that was enough. I said yes. He smiled. I turned away so he wouldn’t see my face break open.
Later I sat in the car and cried so hard I fogged up the windshield. Someone walked past with two bags of mulch and a child in a cart eating string cheese and I thought: this is it. This is the exact emotional basement of American parenting. Right here. Between the mulch and the guilt and the expired peanut butter in the backseat.
I went home and paid the rest online while eating a cold quesadilla over the sink.