"Hello, Muther! Hello, Father!" was what I expected those first letters from camp to say. Instead, it was the form letter I had made for my 10-year-old son.

He had checked a few boxes and added one personal note: "Love, Joe."

That was his first year at camp in Webster, Wisc.

Going to sleep-away camp was his idea in fourth grade. Though I doubted that he would remember to brush his teeth or locate his socks, he did extremely well. Arriving home, he exclaimed, "That was the best summer of my life. I can't wait to go back!"

Whew! He had no idea what I had been through.

Before I agreed to let him go, I spoke to the director a few times. He assured me that kids younger than 10 love camp.

I worried about everything.

Did he make it to camp? I finally called. Camp called back. Yes, he had arrived, he was having fun and he was a great kid. Would he take a shower as required every other day? Would he make friends?

Now, honestly, have you met my son? Would he have a good time?

I worried for nothing.

The next year he returned for two weeks and started to acquire friends from different states. That summer we received this letter: "Dear Mom and Dad, having fun. My activities include sailing and water sports. Love, Joe. P.S. Dad, I won the cinnamon-bun eating contest. Don't tell Mom." I was raising a Kennedy and didn't know it. And I found out anyway.

Going into seventh grade, Joe planned on camp for three weeks - the LONGEST three weeks of my life. This was the summer it all clicked. Joe's bunkmates from Minneapolis became incredible friends.

This was the letter we received that year: "Mom and Dad, I was in the infirmary, but I feel much better now. Mom, I want to buy a pair of sweatpants, what size should I get?"

I messaged through the one-way e-mail system: "Hope you feel better! Try the sweatpants on." In the meantime, we received the inevitable letter: "Mom and Dad, I don't have enough money in my account, send more. Love, Joe."

Joe and his friends requested to be cabin mates the next year. I had a feeling the camp didn't know what would happen. These very nice boys knew how to have fun and were mischievous in a good way.

Midway through the summer of swine flu and strep throat nationwide, we received his letter: "Mom and Dad, I am very sick. Tell me what to do. I feel terrible. Love, Joe."

Halting my first urge to call him was the camp's policy to notify parents if a camper is in the infirmary overnight. We had not been contacted. I e-mailed: "Hi, this is Joe's mom. I received a letter that he wasn't feeling well. Do you know anything about this?" The assistant director replied, "I've been out on the grounds today and I've seen Joe participating in his activities."

Seriously, I was going to clobber that kid! What kind of letter is that to send home to his muther and father? When Joe came home, he assured us it was just his allergies. At the time, he really did feel bad. And ... he had had the BEST summer of his life!

Summer camp has been an amazing experience for our family. We are happy that Joe goes to camp and has the time of his life while making lifelong friends, acquiring new skills and becoming more independent.

He now looks forward to becoming a camp counselor one day. Maybe he will run camp someday. Maybe then I will get his letter: "Mom and Dad, camp is great. Wish you were here!"

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Pam Wilson lives in suburbia, and while she has no idea how she wound up there, is enjoying the journey. She has a 14-year-old son and a 11-year-old daughter. Pam has a bachelor's in family and child development and a master's in social work. She is an outdoor girl, an avid reader, enjoys biking and baking, loves to hang out with friends and has determined that chocolate can indeed solve most of life's problems.