WHEN my first daughter was born, my mother told me that my life was going to change; that my emotional weather would no longer be dictated by my own moods, but by hers. “You’re only ever as happy as your unhappiest child,” she said.

If my girls become mothers themselves, I’ll tell them the same thing, with an important addition. “You’re only ever as happy as your unhappiest child,” I will say. “So do not send your unhappiest child to sleep-away camp with an unlimited texting plan.”

My older daughter, who is 12, did not want to go to camp this summer. Her father and I hung tough through months of complaints, of pleading and threats and I-don’t-want-to’s. All the while, I was flashing back to the summer that may well have flipped my settings from “normal” to “writer” — if you buy the notion that a writer is someone who’s been so traumatized by life or her parents, or by a summer trip to Israel with five other Jennifers where she got called “the fat one,” that she is left with no choice other than using words to impose order on the terrifying chaos of the world.

I promised my daughter that she would be fine, even while recalling my own misery. I told her that she would make friends, even though I spent months, seasons, entire school years friendless. I told her that this would be good for her; that, even if she didn’t come home with a new B.F.F., she’d at least know that she could depend on herself and survive a tough time.