When the first-ever, all-inclusive parenting manual is published, it
should include a chapter offering advice for parents sending their sons
to summer camp.
I’m even volunteering to write it.
Chapter 99: Church camp.
Men, listen up. This advice will help you not only through
sending your son to church camp, but to realize exactly what little boys
are all about. Oh, you were a little boy once? Well, then, hug your
mother and tell her she’s the most fantastic individual on earth.
Walking into the dorm to pick up my second son’s belongings after
his first stay at church camp, I immediately noticed the blue towel
sopping wet and soaking my quilt was not one of ours.
Lesson No. 1: Mothers know their towels. Even if we have 50, one
in every color, we still know which ones are ours. I sent an old steel
blue towel, not periwinkle. I don’t own a periwinkle towel. (Yes,
periwinkle is a color — one word that men will never use. Ever.) With
two fingers, I picked it up with disgust and moved it off the quilt.
That’s when a man, a few years older than myself, said, “You here to get
Lucas’ stuff?”
I nodded, and he replied, “Well, there’s a bunch of stuff in the
shower room. You might want to go in there and see if anything belongs
to him.”
With great trepidation, I walked into the shower room with my
6-year-old who had to use the rest room. He walked toward the stalls,
while the man — obviously a camp volunteer — followed me into the shower
area. There, to my dismay, was a pile of wet, nasty clothing —
inside-out socks, swimming trunks, beach towels and underwear.
My gasp must have been audible, or the man sensed my anguish.
“Worst group we’ve ever had as far as clothes. They just dropped them
wherever they took them off.”
I thought, “Little boys dropping their clothes wherever they
landed, then taking off and forgetting about them? Who would’ve
thought.”
Looking through the mess, trying not to touch, I realized quickly
the towel I sent was not among the debris. It’s why I send an old
towel, old washcloth and cheap clothes. I learned long ago those things
rarely make it home from camp.
Nearly running from the shower room to escape the clothing massacre, I happened upon my 6-year-old who was zipping his pants.
That’s when the man said, “This group was bad about clothes, but
at least they seemed to know how to flush.” He then walked over and
flushed after my 6-year-old.
Whoops. Another lesson: Not only do little boys leave clothing strewn about, they find it hard to flush, aim or put the seat up.
Apparently this, too, was news to the counselor. (He obviously
raised girls and hasn’t spoken to his mom about his own long-abandoned
habits.)
Later, after arriving home, my son’s bag was dropped in front of the washing machine.
Emptying it directly into the washer, I noted several pairs of the
underwear I sent were still folded as I placed them. Yep. This is a
church camp lesson, too: Changing undies is optional when mom’s not
looking.
And the bar of soap I issued was unopened, as was the bottle of shampoo.
“Did you take a shower while you were at camp?” I asked my little guy.
“They wouldn’t let me,” he replied.
Lying after church camp? Nope. Not hardly. The translation that
can only be interpreted by mom: “I asked to take a shower 30 seconds
before dinner, or in the middle of our Bible lesson.” Every chapter in
the manual should end with, “Whatever they say shall not be taken
literally.”
And whether or not little boys ever shed that quality can be
argued later in life with their wives, long after we moms give up. Soap
will go unopened, and undies may not get changed. The washing machine
may revolt, and we’ll lose a few towels along the way. But in the end,
we just shrug, laugh and know boys will be boys — especially at church
camp.
Perfect.
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