I took Olivia to camp today. It's always a little bittersweet for me to take her there. I miss having her at home, I miss seeing her around the house, I even miss (god help me!) her incessant playing of Hannah Montana CDs.

I remember the first year she went to camp. I was terrified. She was eight years old and had never been away overnight, except to stay with family members. I knew that Clara Barton would be a safe place for her but there was a part of me that wanted to cling to her, to hold her close, thinking that no one, no one was going to take care of her the way I could.

That first year she only did mini-camp. She stayed from Sunday until Thursday. When I went to pick her up, she bubbled over with stories of what they'd done, telling me about this girl and that girl, talking enthusiastically about their activities and games. It was wonderful to see her that enthusiastic.

What keeps me paying the high cost at Clara Barton, though, is that that first year, on the way home, she was just about bouncing in the front seat. "You know what the best part of camp was, mum?" "No, tell me." "Everyone there was just like me. I didn't have to explain anything to anyone, I didn't have to feel embarrassed or weird or anything because everyone else just knew. It was great."

Part of me is thrilled that she has this space, this safe, comfortable space where she can just be herself. I know that she has made good friends there, friends she will hopefully keep for a long time. But part of me is very sad that for 50 weeks out of the year, she doesn't feel comfortable, doesn't feel enough at ease.

But at Barton, she does. And that means the world to me.