I have had some pretty uneventful summers. And not because OF ME I would like to add, but more so because I had stick-in-the-mud parents (I would like to defend that statement though by saying they DID have 6 kids and managing fun for that many people can be mind-numbing at best, it just takes maturing to realize that and appreciate it) who refused to allow us much, if any freedom at all. If I recall, a lot of my summer time BS* (Before Soccer) was spent playing with my god awful siblings in the backyard with a week at church camp.
Once I hit 13 and was playing soccer like a bajillion days a week, I was at least away from those pesky kids I was related to and out having a good time. Well, other than those times those biotches made fun of me, but I think that’s another story for another day. I might have some deep rooted issues about that. Probably.
Anyways, I digress… this is about a great summer holiday, not about the shitty ones. (Which there were plenty.)
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| Not the actual camp I went to, just an image I stole online but you get the idea. |
The summer I turned 16, I decided to sign up as a camp counselor at the church camp I had been going to for 5 years. I wasn’t a Christian, but my grandparents were/are, and it thrilled them to bits to be able to do this for their grandchildren every year in hopes that one day we would join them at some god awful (see what I did there?) hour in the morning every Sunday.
I would just like to say that it didn’t work.
Being a camp counselor really wasn’t something I was prepared for. To me, at 16, it was a time to do fuck-all; stay up late, sleep in, flirt with boys, and enjoy the freedom away from my parents. I think my wake up call came the first morning when I was woken up by my co-counselor for the early morning bible study. We quickly decided that she would handle those. I won’t confirm or deny, but it’s rumored that I might have strong-armed that decision. Who knows?
Truthfully, I compare myself then to an angst-ridden teenager in a Judy Blume novel. Pick one, any one. That was me: immature, rebellious, and plain stubborn. I wasn’t going to like these children entrusted in my care, let alone love them! I wasn’t going to sing happy campfire songs and hold their hands! Who the fuck was going to make ME play kick the can and hide the flag, and ACTUALLY ENJOY DOING IT?
Who knew that at 16, I could actually be sane, friendly, loving, and ENJOY KIDS? My parents didn’t. I sure as hell didn’t. And I am pretty sure the Camp Directors feared me just a little bit.
Throughout that week, I learned a lot about myself. In fact, it was probably the summer I really started to grow into the woman that I am today. I look back fondly on it, remembering the awesome group of 6 and 7 year olds I had the pleasure to get to know and mentor despite my initial reluctance to do so. I smile when I recall the campfires and forest games and the mess hall food that truly isn’t something I would ever eat again. I like to think that those kids remember me too and look back fondly on the times we spent together, and maybe, just maybe, I had a positive impact on who they’ve grown up to be.
When I first started thinking about posting a great summer holiday story for Cheesy Bloggers, I wasn’t expecting to tell this one. But every story that came to mind took me directly back here, to this summer, and I knew I had to share it.
I think I am going to look into sending my daughter to that same camp next year. I think she’ll love it.
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