Every May, I tell myself I am going to be normal about summer. This lasts until the first camp registration email arrives. Then I become a woman with 12 browser tabs open, a credit card in one hand, and the haunted expression of someone trying to build a 10-week childcare system out of mountain biking, track and field skills, pottery, outdoor adventure, theater, robotics, and, apparently, dog mushing. I have nothing against dog mushing. I am sur…