A mother of 85 is no easy feat
For the last three summers of my life, I worked full-time as a camp counselor, barely clearing minimum wage. If you had asked me before my first day on the job why I agreed to do it, I wouldn’t have had a clear answer for you. Truthfully, I went into that summer thinking I would end each day exhausted and miserable because I was 16 and I hated kids. But there I was, back again, year after year, and another one after that.
The first minute I was on the clock, two girls ran up to me asking if I would play with them. I hesitantly agreed, and we ran off, settling into a hidden corner of the playground. Then they asked me, “Can you tell us a scary story?” A little baffled, I told them I didn’t have any scary stories in the middle of June. “Okay! I’ll go first!” One said. The rest is history.
As the days passed and the summers went by, I appreciated that creaky playground more and more. I appreciated the chaos and the meltdowns. I appreciated being the butt of every “unc” joke and everyone’s target during dodgeball. I began to appreciate watching the smallest details preserve the magic of childhood, and I appreciated making a fool of myself to get a laugh out of a pouty seven-year-old. I appreciated the camp. I loved it—I still do.
There was something about last summer, though, my last summer, that just felt different. I wasn’t a stranger anymore. These kids knew me and I knew them. Instead of being a playground monitor, I became one of them. I understood these kids inside and out, helping them learn how to regulate, how to express, how to empathize. I then saw them apply it, and in a way, I felt like I was helping raise them. For 40 hours a week, eight weeks straight, I listened to everyone’s deepest darkest secrets in awe of the growth they had made in a short three years. I watched my kids act with humility and sportsmanship after losses that had once made them delirious. I watched a family, my family, prosper.
I refuse to pick any one child who influenced me more than the others, despite the older kids wanting me to reveal who my favorite camper was. I always told them the same thing —the truth —”You’re all my favorites.” They were never satisfied with the answer, but I was. It was a slow, seamless process, but each one of those kids infiltrated my heart, and they changed me. They took a guarded, reserved, insecure teenage girl and transformed me into a version of myself that I can confidently say I am proud of. They showed me a love that I had never experienced: requited, innocent, altruistic love—truly one only a child can emulate—and for that I can never repay them. Somehow, these children, ages five to 11, were exactly what I needed to heal.
On my last day, after spending the summer dressed up as Star Wars characters and slices of watermelon, I did what I thought would be the most embarrassing of all: I cried in front of the kids. But I did not feel embarrassed, only gratitude for finding something that was so hard to say goodbye to.
So did I go home every day feeling exhausted? Yes. Completely. But miserable? Not in the slightest. I left full of love and lessons learned that I carry with me everywhere I go. Some of them still may be far too young even to realize it, but my campers defeated all odds and completely changed my outlook on myself and on life and they will forever have a cheerleader in me.