With the kids at camp, what will we even do?

I have heard whispers of the wondrous sleepaway camp years. One friend went to Italy the entire time with her husband, another couple got addicted to their kids’ Xbox, creating great unrest when their kids got home.

Last Sunday all three of my children left for sleepaway camp. This means my husband, Ian, and I are alone for two weeks.

“When we are away, what are you and dad going to even do?” my 11yearold Louie asked. He was truly perplexed; something about his use of the word “even.”

I have heard whispers of the wondrous sleepaway camp years. One friend went to Italy the entire time with her husband, another couple got addicted to their kids’ Xbox, creating great unrest when their kids got home.

After spending 48 hours packing up all three kids, dropping them off at the bus at 9 a.m. Sunday brought immediate relief. As soon as they climbed onboard, a mom friend smiled at me knowingly and I couldn’t help but hoot out with joy while giving her a highfive.

“You realize all of our kids just saw you do that from the bus,” Ian said with that howcouldyoubethemotherofmychildren voice.

“You realize we are alone for two weeks,” I shot back with that wearemarriedbutyoustillneedtoromanceme voice.

By way of appeasement, Ian took me out for a champagne brunch and then promptly took a threehour nap ... alone.

I busied myself setting up for the raucous dinner party I had planned for our first night of freedom. I found myself gathering all relics of our children and hiding them in Ian’s office.

Gone were the endless copies of “Dogman” books spread across our living room, replaced by all The New Yorkers I had never had time to read. It was like I was trying to relive my childless past. Ah, those publishing dinner parties in my ghetto Queens apartment; one night we set the table on fire somehow and didn’t notice until Nassim Taleb pointed out a charred hole slowly expanding at end of my table. My dinners now involve me lecturing everyone on the merits of using a fork and I’m in bed by 9.

Our guests arrived with fireworks and we screamed all night about Joe Biden vs. Elizabeth Warren in wild abandon.

“OK, just stop it because there is no way Warren will win; Biden is the only viable candidate,” my friend hollered at one point. The immediate quoting of Noam Chomsky and unmitigated rage ensued.

The next day I got a call from the camp director who had intercepted the following letter home from my 8yearold George:

Dear Mom and Dad, I want to go home. I was badly heart (hurt) and I did not do anything fun. The only fun thing I did was culinary arts. It’s awful to wake up every day. I haven’t got to do what I wanted to do. From, George

He signed it with a drawing of very angry face, complete with angry eyebrows.

According to the camp director, George had suffered a slight scratch, and he had only gone to two activities so far — and one of them was culinary arts (which he loved).

“He’ll be fine,” she said reassuringly. George tends to wax dramatic.

Regardless George’s letter gave us pause.

“Maybe you should go get him,” my friend texted when I sent her a picture of his letter.

“We can’t, we just booked tickets to go to Bonaire to windsurf all week,” I wrote back.

The next morning (Day 2 of camp) George announced to his cabin that he was going home today.

It was time to pull out the big guns. I took a picture of a letter George had written to his best friend Billy a couple months ago, that shared a similar dramatic theme. His letter had said:

Dear Billy, I know we’ve been friends for a long time. I’m sorry but me and you being friends is over. Our friendship is over. I’m sorry. Sincerely, George Haft

On the outside of the envelope he had drawn a sad face with a solitary tear he carefully colored blue. Two days later, Billy and George were best friends again.

I sent a picture of this letter via camp internet with a note that read:

Dear George, Sounds like camp is hard. But things change. Remember when you were going to send this note to Billy — and how glad you were that we didn’t send it? Camp can be just like that. So, hang in there. Love Mom

The next night of freedom Ian and I went out to eat and came home to watch “Stranger Things” (the favorite Netflix series of our 11yearold Louie) while eating the candy we forgot to give the kids for the sixhour bus ride to Maine.

But here’s the strange thing: We didn’t set off those fireworks at our dinner party in the end. Instead, we were in bed by 10 and lingered at the kids’ bedrooms, where even the eldest still asks to be tucked in at night (although we are under strict orders not to tell anyone).

So they are gone, and they are not gone. We’re having fun, but there’s an ache in there as well.

Why can’t anything be simple anymore?

Buy my, how good those Airhead candies taste with a cold beer.

Claire Tisne Haft is a former publishing and film executive, raising her family in Greenwich while working on a freelance basis on books and films.