“Hey mom, do you know that there is a bread that is white and smooshy?” Quin jumped into the car’s back seat, talking a mile a minute. It was his first day of the Vermontville summer rec program — his first camp experience.

Before I could answer, he continued. “And there is this stuff — it’s like marshmallow, but you spread it. I had it with peanut butter on that smooshy white bread.”

“It’s called a Fluffernutter, Quin.”

“What? You knew about these, Mom? Why didn’t you tell me?” Quin was incredulous that someone would keep this culinary delight a secret.

And so my sphere of influence shrunk. The whole grain bread, the veggie crudites and the bean dips all began to take a back seat. Fluffernutters, fruit snacks and chips, while not a steady diet, became lunch box treats.

Some people identify going to school or riding the bus as the childhood experience that changes everything, but in our family, it was summer camp. I was OK with this. As a kid, I had loved all kinds of camps, and I was thrilled that my children would have similar opportunities. Rec programs, sports camps and sleepaway camps all shaped our kids’ lives in a myriad of ways. The knowledge gained wasn’t just new games, crafts, or a variety of silly camp songs, but a buffet of life lessons peppered with some good chuckles.

They learned about personal hygiene.

“Did you find time to shower?” I asked.

“Yup,” Quin answered.

“Was it before breakfast like we talked about?” I prompted.

“No, it was Thursday. There was a dance so they made us shower on Thursday.”

Sometimes the lessons took longer to sink in.

“A couple of girls in our cabin had to go home early,” Phoebe reported.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Were they homesick?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so … Do you know what was really cool, though? After they left the counselors combed out and braided our hair — Every day! They never did that before. They must have really liked us.”

Or they were really worried about lice.

They learned moderation — the hard way. Apparently, unlimited chicken balls and cheese balls had a similar effect on my two girls — an outcome I won’t share, but the events led to a phone call home from the nurse for one and a college admissions essay for the other.

Not only can’t I list all that they learned, I probably don’t know half of it. Most summer camps inherently have Lord of the Flies moments where life progresses under kid rules and the adults remain blissfully ignorant.

But not anymore, this is the first summer of no camp.

No more driving to Chateaugay basketball camp with cars full of teenage girls, who forgot the drivers as they recounted the mini-dramas on the court. No more mandatory stops at a different ice cream stand each day, followed by the yearly debate of which one was the best.

No more trips to lacrosse camp, with the unexpected offering, “Do you want to know how to say blue in Mohawk?” which prompted a great discussion full of cultural questions.

No more out-of-town connections popping up in shopping malls, restaurants and playing fields.

I’m not going to lie, I loved everything about sending the kids to summer camp. The build up and anticipation, the checklist of necessities, the excited look at the cabin lists, and, ultimately, the stories that were sure to follow.

Now my husband and I look forward to night time. It is near the witching hour when we rouse ourselves groggily from the couch and recliner to see our two youngest as they come home. As we make them a late-night snack, their stories and conversations revolve mainly around work. We get to be an audience of two as they compare notes and share comic reenactments of their work experiences. And while we gently ask the same questions about the number of customers and try to prompt further discussion about interesting tidbits of their day, it’s not really the facts we are interested in.

We are listening for their insights, their growth, and their innate sense of humor which helps them through adversity. We might even be listening for evidence of the small children we once knew and for epiphanies like those they experienced at camp.

I can’t be sure what we hope to hear, but I know we listen and laugh. And I know these new experiences will serve them well.

Dr. Cook once urged me to “not be sad when the children grew older because every age is special in itself.” And that was good advice, George, but I still miss summer camp.