Yesterday marked the end of Catherine’s first stint as a camp counselor in training. She’s had a great time this summer seeing ESF, the camp she loves so much, from the other side of the fence. Plus, she’s gotten some good insights into what it’s like to work with children — which is handy because she wants to be a teacher.
And we are proud to see that she made a good impression on the staff, judging by the nice notes they all wrote in an oversized thank-you card they presented her with.
Despite countless efforts tying sneakers; reading stories; singing songs; overseeing rounds of duck, duck, goose; cutting lunches into bite-sized pieces; drawing hearts, animals and peace signs; and making sure the kids eat and stay hydrated, I know she’s already counting the days until next summer when she gets to do it all again.
I’m going to miss her daily stories.
About the kids who quickly latched on to Catherine and spent lots of time in her lap or clinging to her legs.
The visit of owls, some kind of lizard, a chinchilla and other critters from Animal Embassy, and how excited the kids were to see the “aminals.”
The many interesting craft projects — quite a few of them special gifts to Catherine that will likely hang on our Christmas tree for years to come.
Kids who wouldn’t get in the pool. Kids who wouldn’t get out of the pool.
The little boy who solved the problem of wanting a lemon ice instead of a cherry ice by dumping an entire bottle of water in the cherry cup and declaring, “Done!”
How fascinated the little girls were by Catherine’s Minnie Mouse costume on dress-up day. (Minnie’s ears, it turns out, are “soft” and needed repeated petting.)
The kid who accidentally killed a lady bug and couldn’t understand why it wasn’t moving.
How excited the kids were to see Catherine doesn’t like the crusts, either. “We never met a big person who doesn’t eat the crust!” they told her.
My favorite: The little girl who quickly latched on to Catherine and introduced her to everyone as “my camp mommy.”
And many more tales and commentary that only 4-, 5- and 6-year-olds can generate.
Not surprisingly, throughout the summer, I’ve heard a steady stream of:
The kids don’t listen
It’s hard to get the kids to listen.
This is how I got the kids to listen.
There’s always one kid who doesn’t listen.
I can’t believe how hard it is to get the kids to listen.
Yup, I think.
And it takes Herculean effort on my part not to point out the irony between her first-hand observations and the fact that a mountain of clothes sits on her newly carpeted floor — despite my regular entreaties for it to be picked up.
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