One Time At Scout Camp

In business, my decisions are guided by logic. In parenting, they’re driven exclusively by guilt.

Last week was no exception. I signed up my kids for Cub Scout camp because I felt bad that I left them sitting around the house all summer with nothing to do. Never mind that “nothing” is their favorite activity in the world and includes a wealth of sedentary entertainment options that would have been the stuff of science fiction during my own childhood. Perhaps the girls finally appreciate that because they now dread all the weekend activities I have planned to make up for their weekdays at home. They aren’t introverts. They just understand that YouTube is better than interacting with other people. They learn fast. There was, however, one weekday activity that fit into our schedule: Cub Scout day camp. It offered the kinds of activities my kids love on those rare occasions I manage to pull them away from their tablets. I enrolled my youngest three, Mae (ten), Lucy (eight), and Waffle (six). Betsy (twelve) escaped having to leave the house because she never asked me to join Cub Scouts and is now too old for the program. It pays to be inactive. I figured scout camp was a good investment since it was only for a week and the pack provided transportation to and from the park, which was forty minutes away. I just had to get the kids to the drop-off point at a church near my house and my day would be three-quarters child free. It was a simple and efficient arrangement for everyone. Predictably, it fell apart.

The pack had trouble finding enough drivers to get kids to camp and back again. It turns out most parents work, which is how they pay for things like scout camp. The afternoon before the last day, the pack announced that the final session would start at 10 a.m., not the usual 8. Since literally everyone would be at their jobs at that time, there wouldn't be any drivers to take the kids to the park. If you wanted your children to make it to the last day, that was on you. I was too cheap to give up 20 percent of the camp I’d paid for, so I took the day off to play taxi driver. The trip was far enough that it didn’t make sense to drop off the kids and then drive back home on my own, only to return again at the end of the day. I’d have to stay the whole day. I mean, I got to stay the whole day, which I definitely wanted to do. Weird how I mistyped like that and then didn’t go back to edit it out. I, the person who ranked up through scouting as fast as possible simply so I could get out, was now voluntarily devoting a full day to doing scout things with five very amped up children. It was family day, which meant I could take Betsy, and I had extra seats, so I ended up with a bonus kid who’s mom, like everybody else’s moms, was at her job at that time. It was going to be a day to remember—or, more likely, to forget as soon as possible. There’s a reason my liquor cabinet is always fully stocked.

We got to camp one minute into the opening ceremony. The plan for the day, as explained to me by more responsible parents who managed to get there on time, was to go from station to station, spending roughly an hour at each one. Our first stop was the splash pad. The day was cold and overcast, and none of the kids wanted to get wet. Instead, we went to the playground right next to it. Five minutes into our sixty-minute session, the kids were complaining that they were bored. Eventually, ennui trumped discomfort and most of the kids changed into their bathing suits. Betsy, meanwhile, opted to stay dry and instead attempted to set a world record on the swing. She didn't get turned inside out by flipping over the bar, so I assume she failed. Maybe next time.

As for the other kids, as soon as they got in the water, they got right back out. Cold is still cold, even if you're really bored. The event the kids really wanted to go to was the ice cream social. We don't have ice cream at our house, which my children bring up constantly. They consider my attempts to make them eat healthy to be no less than a war crime. The problem at camp was that ice cream was nowhere on the posted schedule, and it wasn't mentioned at the opening ceremony, either—although they could have talked about it in the one minute we missed. That's the kind of headline you lead with. With the ice cream in limbo, the kids settled for lunch. We left the splash pad and playground areas early and started our picnic. Cold pepperoni and apples are just as good as rocky road. Not really, but it was better than nothing, which is what Bonus Kid had on the menu. His mom forgot to send a lunch, but my kids split theirs to cover him. Luckily, Betsy had added extra to hers because she didn't trust my ability to judge portions. Her doubt was Bonus Kid's gain.

Then it was time for firearms. The camp bravely (or foolishly. Or both.) had a BB gun range. The younger three kids had been shooting all week, but this was Betsy’s first time with a projectile weapon of any kind. Her reign of terror over her sisters is bad enough when she’s unarmed. I wasn't eager to change the situation. The kids, however, excitedly took up their firing positions. Then they started plinking away with their tiny BBs. After ten minutes of shooting, almost none of Waffle's metal balls hit the target. That made her especially dangerous. There's no telling where her shots will go. She could hit anything in the world other than what she's aiming at. Mae was on the opposite end of the spectrum. She sent so many BBs through the bullseye that she punched a massive hole in it. It was a useful reminder not to mess with her. Her dating years should be interesting.

Mae was equally deadly at the next station, archery. I have no idea when she became so proficient with tools of war. Apparently growing up in our house is more dangerous than I thought. Mae launched arrow after arrow at the target long after Lucy and Waffle got bored. Betsy stuck with it, too, perhaps because she sensed a change in the balance of power. Let the arms race begin.

Next, it was time for the actual main event, at least as far as my kids were concerned: ice cream. There was supposed to be a petting zoo between the archery station and the cooking one, but the real star attractions were late. Herd animals are such prima donnas. The cooking stop turned out not to be an ice cream buffet but a stand for root beer floats, in this case made with sarsaparilla to fit with the camp’s western theme. Consequently, I'm in my thirties and just learned that "sarsaparilla" has a silent “r.” Or maybe the “r” isn’t silent at all and I just don’t know how to say words. Someone take away my English degree. Regardless, the kids weren't concerned with spelling or pronunciation as they inhaled their floats. We were scheduled for an hour at the cooking stop, even though it only took eleven minutes, and ten of those were when the guy in charge made the kids pick up trash before he'd feed them. I didn't mind because there was a comfortable chair in the shade. I would have taken a nap, but right when I was about to lose consciousness, someone pulled out a bunch of yard toys, including a boomerang. I spent the rest of my time there fearing for my life and also telling Waffle to put her shoes back on. Her feet just want to be free.

During the wait, Lucy and Bonus Kid launched a coup and attempted to convince me to take everyone home early. I told them to poll the other kids. They had Waffle's vote (She can be barefoot anywhere, including in our house), but they failed to win over the other two girls. Mae was no doubt hoping for more warrior experiences, but I'm not sure what she thought would happen at the petting zoo. Maybe she planned to ride a war pony. Betsy also wanted to stay because she saw a baby bird fall out of its nest. This wildlife encounter happened not deep in the woods, but from one of the eves of the visitor's center. Contrary to popular belief, touching a baby bird won't curse it with the scent of man and drive away its mother for good. (Although the smell of dudes can be pretty awful. There's a reason I buy extra, extra strength deodorant.) Since the vote to leave wasn't unanimous, I made everyone stay. We would wait for the animals.

That was the plan, anyway. Four o'clock rolled around, and the mobile petting zoo was nowhere in sight. I get it. Transporting kids is nearly impossible when they act like animals, so transporting actual animals has to be ten times harder. Nonetheless, my tribe lacked my deep sense of empathy. They were on the cusp of a full scale riot. Finally, with no sign of the petting zoo anywhere, I gave up and left with the kids. They could pet the pigs at home. My decision to leave may or may not have coincided with my phone battery getting critically low. I loaded the kids into my van and pulled out of the parking lot. Then, a miracle. On our way out, a trailer full of animals passed us going in the other direction. I pulled the fastest u-turn of my life, and my zoo followed their zoo in.

I barely had the van parked before the kids came tumbling out. Now that there were animals, the girls forgot all about their burning desire to flee the scene. They rushed to the trailer to pet all the things. Attractions included goats, chickens, a sheep, a pony, a donkey, a rabbit, a peacock, and a tortoise, which didn’t even hide in its shell when hundreds of sticky hands descended upon it. That must be what it looks like to be dead inside. Lucy pet everything with so much vigor that she came away with wool in her hair. Clearly the farm animal experience was much needed, despite the fact that we have livestock at home. Betsy kept calling the turkey a rooster, and I had to correct her each time. In her defense, they both look about the same when she usually sees them, which is sliced up into lunch meat. It’s their best form.

After frantically touching everything, it was time to go home for real. We got in the van as it started to rain. All five kids were out cold before we reached the first stop sign, including the ones who claimed they didn’t have any fun. Being miserable is exhausting. They woke up when I parked in front of our house. It’s the closest experience human beings will ever have to teleporting. The kids talked about scout camp for days afterwards, so it must have been a success. Mae wanted me to tell everyone at Halo Night about her performance at the BB gun range and even made me send the group chat a picture of her target. It’s not often that you discover a previously unknown talent, and it’s even rarer when that talent is super dangerous. Now she can injure people at long range. Hurray. She can show off her skill again next year at scout camp because I’m definitely not buying her a BB gun of her own. In my house, the children will forever be limited to unarmed combat. That generates enough emergency room trips as it is.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next week.

James