“It’s really not going to be as bad as you think, Nomes. I promise. Eleventh grade is amazing”

Tell me there are older married siblings in the home without telling me there are older married siblings in the home.

I gingerly step around a baby bouncer, hop around a baby swing, and jump over a box of Magnatiles, all conveniently located in the not-so-spacious kitchen. Considering the youngest in our house, Lazer, is 14, this can mean only one thing: The marrieds descended for Shabbos. And they did not clean up very well afterward.

Baruch Hashem, I was at Debbi’s and missed the chaos. I’m so annoyed by the mess that I forgo my usual coffee and banana, grab my bag, sling it on, slip into my Adidas, and head for the door.

I’d stay and help Mommy clean up, I really would, but Debbi is expecting me at her house for a camp-packing brainstorming session.

Also, I really don’t want to.

I’m not what you’d call a “camp girl.” I don’t wait all year until I can finally be my true self, express my creativity, shine in ways I don’t in the classroom. Because, let’s face it, I kind of shine in the classroom.

But I do love camp. The freedom, the fun, the girls, the grounds. And this year — bumbumbumdadum — we are finally, finally going to be staff. Which is the only reason I don’t tell Debbi to regular calm down. I totally get it. I’m excited, too. But also, she needs to stop pacing around her room, or I’m going to throw up from motion sickness.

“Can you sit?” I say finally, as she bounds by me again, the packing list in her hand coming precariously close to my eye.

I don’t think she can actually hear me above the sound of her panic.

My phone rings. Well, that’s Debbi saved by the bell, because I was about to kill her.