Children, despite being good at rap, get a bad rap
I’m good at a few things. I can whistle fairly well, I had a pretty good slap shot for a while, and I’ve got a better than average grasp of grammar. I excel, however, at much fewer pursuits. But one thing that I am particularly good at is hanging out with kids. I love kids. I love them. I’m pretty sure I don’t want any of my own (which is a shame because my parents would make phenomenal grandparents), but I can’t wait for my friends to have kids so I can be the cool aunt who takes them on cool trips and knows something about everything. Selfishly, I love being good with kids. Some people pride themselves on interacting well with dogs, but I will be the first person on the floor playing Lego with your younger sibling.
I have had the imponderable pleasure and privilege of working with children of all ages from every conceivable background for the past eight years. I don’t want to be a teacher or anything, I just really like playing dodgeball, and nobody else my age really appreciates my fart jokes quite like a 10-year-old. Kids, man. They’ll play any game, pursue any activity with complete enthusiasm, and laugh at any and everything that involves someone falling or burping (me too). As we age, we lose the desire to explore, to question, to play. Working with kids gives me the chance to forget, for however brief a moment, the rigid formality that accompanies adulthood. It’s nice to think that I’ve had a positive impact on so many children in my life. But honestly, those kids have changed my life for the better more than they could ever know.
I get it. A lot of people say they aren’t good with kids; that they don’t know how to talk to them or what to say. Really, you can say anything you want to kids. The trick is to speak to them like they’re people. Kids aren’t stupid, and they aren’t pets. They’re people. Small people who can’t drive and realistically shouldn’t be allowed to vote until they can spell “municipal election,” but people nonetheless with complex feelings, opinions, and preferences. Kids, like young white male college students, just want someone to listen to them, make food for them, and assuage their fears. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with talking to kids like you would speak with a peer. Kids are smart, they’ll understand what you’re saying. Honestly, I have asked three-year-olds “What’s up man, how’s your day going?” and they have responded with remarkably coherent, though often times funny, responses.
Also, much like me, kids want to know everything. They are so goddamn inquisitive that it reminds me to stop and question everything. Not in the “Is anything real, is the government controlling me?” way, but the in the way conducive to genuine curiosity. I think sometimes people are afraid of kids because they ask a lot of questions and they’re afraid of not knowing the answer. Trust me, you don’t need to know the complete answer. A really cool, really easy cop-out is to say, “I don’t know. Let’s find out together.” Amazing! Really, such an amazing lesson for kids. Adults don’t know everything. You don’t have to know everything, you can admit it, and you can try to find the answer. Incredible stuff for everyone! And jesus, not to wax poetic, but is there anything better than watching someone else’s face light up from understanding another fraction of this incredible world? Another facet of this wonderful life? Maybe a well-executed game of mafia, but I’m not sure.
My favourite age-group happens to be the average person’s least favourite age-group: tweens. Ten to 13-year-olds get such a bad rap. They’re moody, sarcastic, reluctant to engage, blah blah blah. Well, yeah! If someone interacted with me like they expected me to be a snotty grump, I probably would end up acting like one. In reality, they’re just as fun-loving and excited about the world around them as a five-year-old, but they’ve got a much more wicked sense of sarcasm and irony, as well as a much better dodgeball arm. Win-win. The camp I worked at last summer was planning on cutting the eldest age-group. I had never worked at this camp, and the director warned me that my work was cut out for me. Well, not to brag or anything, but within the first week, my co-counsellor and I were receiving praise from faculty all over the building. You’ve just got to give older kids the chance to be the sweet, funny, and enthusiastic people they really are. It blows my mind that I get paid to hang out with the coolest kids imaginable all summer.
I truly believe I am my best self during summer camp. I am a force of kindness and compassion, I am belligerently outgoing and fun-loving. I am level-headed in times of crisis and keenly aware of the needs of my campers. I am an older sister, best friend, number one fan, and fiercely protective mama-bear. I would go to war for my kids and have faced the ire of my superiors who were upset with me for taking my kids inside for a break after they’d been outside in 30 degree weather for two hours straight. Sunstroke is real, man. Don’t tell me how to take care of my kids and don’t assume that I don’t know how to do it. I will eviscerate you. I have bandaged scraped knees, put dislocated shoulders in slings, and injected epi-pens. I have found lost children in science museums from other camps and comforted them (it is a fundamentally moving and life-altering experience to pick up a lost, scared child in your arms and feel the fear and anxiety completely fade away from their bodies; to feel their muscles literally collapse when you tell them they’re ok, that you’ve got them). I have witnessed first-hand the terrible injustices committed against so many children. I have made phone-calls that no person ever wants to make. I have cried so many times. But I’ve laughed more.