Happy Campers

Well it's been two years, but I finally moved past the bros, hipsters, good ole boys, and hip hop stars to experience the real south, the south everyone warned me about, the south that Jeff Foxworthy prepared me for. This past week I hung with the toothless crowd.

And those 22, 3-5 somethings were the toughest southerners this Yankee has encountered yet.

Have you ever tried to imitate every motion that a toddler makes over the course of their day? You'd be dead by 9:30 in the morning. And yet I was the one falling asleep during nap time (on that note, can we bring back that institution?).

I decided pretty early on that the only way to keep order with my tiny summer campers was to establish a military state. I instructed them to call me "Sarge," which, in respectful southern fashion, they changed to "Miss Sarge." Except for the Korean students, who called me "Teacher Sarge." (I'm considering that title for my college professorial career).

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It was pretty difficult to keep up my stern military persona though, especially when one approached me with tears in his eyes (well, I assume, but his face was completely swallowed up by his wailing open mouth so there would be no way of knowing for certain) to tell me he had hit his elbow.

"Don't do that," I told him. "It hurts."

Apparently my Irish father's tough love methods do not work universally, because this only produced more wails.

"Are you going to be okay? Do I need to call in the Marines? What about the National Guard?"

"I j-j-just..." he paused mid-wail, sniffled, gulped, continued, "I just need a hug!"

Melt.

On Wednesday, we took a field trip to the library. The women who let us in the door glared at me like I had just run through her quiet sanctum with a ghetto blaster.

"That is a lot of children." She said it like I wasn't aware I had a small army of toddlers following me.

"I hope you weren't planning on bringing them to the show."

Now, those kids may have softened me up a bit over the week, but the Philly bristled right up at this.

"Well, actually yes. I was planning on bringing them to the free show at the free library." And what are you doing working here, lady? Did you just wake up one morning, think 'I hate kids and noise and disturbance' and then decide, 'I should be a children's librarian!'"

"Well, we have a strict policy to not accept groups of 6 or more."

I looked back at my crew and the 4 chaperones accompanying them.

"I have an adult for every four kids."

"I'm sorry, it's the policy." Don't you mess with me, lady. My people threw snowballs at Santa Claus. I will not spare a mere librarian.

"In that case, we can stagger our entrance to make sure we are letting all of the other children get a chance."

She glared and then conceded. "I will make an exception this time. But don't count on doing it in the future. And don't," she stared down my 5 year old line leader, "line up until 10:20."

I looked at the clock, noted that it was 10:17, and decided to let that battle go.

It was playground time that saved my sanity. A fenced-in area with 100% visibility, filled with play structures that will occupy a three year old attention span for at least 15 minutes? Mecca. I began to look forward to it more than the kids. They saw it as 15 minutes of play time, I saw it as my sole chance to sit down during the day.

Not that it was uninterrupted Me time. Or even uninterrupted sitting time. On that note, children should not be allowed on swings unless they are self-sustaining swingers. I mean, seriously, kid? This is my sitting time. You say you just want one under-doggy but we all know where that leads. It's the gateway to endless pushing.

"Miss Sarge, do you have a kid?"

"No." But if I did he would know how to pump by the age of two: max.

"That's too bad. If you had a kid, he would be like you but he wouldn't be in charge and he and I would be best friends." Hopefully he could teach you how to use a swing.

On the walk back from the playground, Charlie held my hand and pointed to the cars as we passed.

"That's a KIA. That's a BMW. That's a Volvo."

I pointed to a Mustang. "What's that one?"

He looked at me and I sensed a distinct loss of respect.

"That's a Horse." Duh, Miss Sarge.

By day three I was moving in a zombie state, drinking straight espresso and praying for an incident free day.

"Teacher Sarge. What are you drinking?"

"Coffee."

"Why?"

"To give me energy."

He giggled. "That no work, Teacher." Well, yes, I've been realizing that myself. Do you have a better alternative?

"Batteries make energy." Ah, of course. I just need some batteries.

An honest brochure of the camp would have included the following, "Every morning will include 15 minutes of playground time. Please provide a healthy, peanut-free snack for your child to eat during this time. The remainder of the morning will be spent using the potty and washing hands."

One child stood for a full minute with hands extended under the faucet before turning to me and explaining, "There's no water coming out, Miss Sarge."

"That's because you have to turn it on, Caleb." Apparently the hands-free activists hadn't gotten to that bathroom yet.

Add to brochure: "Campers will learn essential survival strategies such as the use of non-sensor plumbing equipment."

At the end of the week I was presented with a token of love from the smallest of my campers. He proudly handed me a red and black caterpillar, asked if he could give me an eskimo kiss, and then trotted away, only to trot back and announce solemnly, "He will poop on you."

The gift was hastily dispatched to its former habitat.

In unrelated news, I made really good food over Memorial Day weekend. So good, in fact, that pictures even made the social media rounds (so maybe there was a little strong arming involved...but what else are best friends for unless to broadcast your victories and pretend like it was voluntary?)

I almost considered writing an entire blog post just to celebrate, but then I forgot the milk in the laundry room for a day or so when I was using my blender in there, and the shame humbled me.

But eat these enchiladas. I have no idea what I did to make them turn out so I will stick to merely listing ingredients. For the rest, you're on your own.