A version of this ran in The Virginian-Pilot on August 14, 1999.

It was impressive.

There in my son's camp trunk were 22 neatly folded clean T-shirts, labeled and packed in rows. There were 14 pairs of new jockey shorts folded in squares and tucked into his clean shower caddy, 12 pairs of clean shorts in assorted colors and a new bar of soap, in the wrapper.

Problem was, this was after he'd returned from nearly a month at camp. I'd originally packed 24 T-shirts and 14 pairs of shorts. Do the math. He'd worn exactly two shirts and two pairs of shorts during his stay in the West Virginia mountains. He'd spent part of that time in a muddy cave.

I'd packed exactly 14 pairs of underpants. In a puzzling development, they all came back unworn. They still smelled of Downy. But my son sure didn't.

I had a foreshadowing of what was to come when my husband had called on the car phone as he motored home with our two happy campers in the back seat. Judging from the deafening ambient noise, he had the windows open and the air conditioning on.

”They smell like camp,” he shouted over the din. At least I think he said “camp.”

Well, one did. My daughter managed to come back from her camp session looking remarkably well scrubbed. Her soap was worn down to a nub. Her fingernails were neatly trimmed. Her trunk was nearly empty - all her soiled clothes were in a laundry bag.

But welcoming a young boy home from summer camp is different. It fills a mother with mixed emotions. On the one hand, mom is overcome with love for this kid who seems vastly changed in just a few weeks. On the other hand, mom doesn't want to get too close.

I followed a family tradition started by my mother back when my brother and I used to go to summer camp. She'd have a steamy bath waiting for us as we came in the front door. Unlike my mother, I did not lace the bath water with Lysol. I should have.

”I don't wear underwear anymore,” my boy remarked casually as he peeled off his favorite T-shirt and shorts and headed for the hot bath I'd drawn.

I could see that.

As I was using a scrub brush on the soles of his feet I happened to glance at his happy face. His teeth looked like they had been caulked.

”Honey,” I began sweetly, trying not to nag in the first few minutes after his return, “did you brush your teeth at all while you were at camp.”

”A couple of times,” he replied, wrinkling his forehead as he tried to remember. “I know I did before the dance.”

That was two weeks ago, I thought, with rising panic.

”Did you use your dental floss?” I asked.

”Not on my teeth,” he answered mysteriously.

What were they doing with it, snaring small rodents? Using it for fishing line? Swinging through the trees on it? I'll never know.

And that's the magic of camp. It gives kids a chance to have fun and learn new skills in a new place. It challenges them to try things and set goals for themselves without looking to mom and dad for constant approval. It teaches them about independence and camaraderie and about nature.

It also teaches boys to take showers without soap, (“I used shampoo all over,” my son insisted) and to pretend to brush their teeth in front of counselors who lack the hygenic vigilance of obsessive parents.

It also challenges kids to eat foods they normally shun at home. My picky eater rattled off a long list of foods he allegedly ate that would never pass the sniff test at home. He boasted that he'd come in third in the pudding eating contest (hands behind your back, face over the bowl). My kid's a champ.

As I tucked him into his bed and gave him a kiss, I asked him what he'd miss most about camp.

With a sly smile he answered: “No one ever says `Don't you think you've had enough, Griffin?' “

That's OK. But next year I'm going to send a note to his counselor suggesting that every third day he say: “Hey, buddy, how about changing those clothes.”