Well, we're finally alone.  No swinging from chandeliers or sleeping until noon yet, but my other half and I did take a lovely sunset drive in the convertible yesterday, and had a late dinner at our first-choice restaurant without commentary from the peanut gallery.   I still think every time the phone rings it's Logan, asking me to pick him up from the skate park or Sam's house, but the uncustomary quiet and lack of schedule are definitely not hardships.  The campers aren’t allowed to call home until Sunday; the camp director explained it makes for an easier transition without additional homesickness.  Of course, hubby and I are confident that even though this is our son’s first time at sleep-away camp, he’s not missing us too much.  He's a third child, after all.  And, third children are a breed of their own.    I bet the only time he thinks of home is in those few moments when his freshly scrubbed skin (yeah, right!) hits the pillow after a jam-packed day of activities.  When his bunk of adolescent boys finally quiet down, and the only sounds he hears are rhythmic breathing and a distant cacophony of cicadas and other insects in the summertime darkness, he probably thinks of home… or, when he needs clean underwear.