This week I've been voluntarily exhausting myself by teaching a summer camp for 19 children, 17 of which are boys, ranging in age from 7 to 12. Um yeah, hopefully you can see a bad idea when you see one, because I sure couldn't. Oh, the majority of them are great kids and have gotten really into the projects we've done, but there's always a few spores who spark a mold invasion.
Did you know that boys love to throw things? Anything, anywhere, anytime. When I was a child, I don't remember ever picking up a marshmallow and thinking, "Hey, this would make a great projectile!" If they can't throw it, then it must be destroyed. If we are doing something with balloons, then I hear, "Can we pop them??" Or, "Are we going to blow anything up today?" Or, "Can we crush it when we're done?"
To rub it all in, there is also a preschool camp going on outside my room where adorable 4 year olds sit complaisantly around a parachute or go on fieldtrips to the library. (My kids made fun of them . . . "They're going on a field trip to the LIBRARY! Hahaha.") After my class, there is some sort of odd girly-girl camp where they teach girls how to do manicures and be good wives, probably. Oh, I made fun of it at first, but now I'm just jealous.
2 more days, and then Sarah's wine camp begins.
