I used to think dealing with kids was relatively easy. You know, just make sure they have food and water, walk them every now and then, regulate their TV time, and make sure they don’t burn down the house. Easy, right? Wrong, and not just wrong, but dead wrong. I will agree that some children are perfect little cherubs of innocence who can do no wrong, sitting quietly with a toy of some kind, babbling away some quasi audible nonsense, but I’ve seriously met maybe only two of these creatures in my 19 years of existence. The children to which I refer are a special breed, specializing in the art of accidental happenstance violence and pure unrelenting malice. They will crush everything you’ve ever held dear in five seconds, then in a toothless smile grab a Juicy Juice and walk away giggling.

I’ve noticed that the experience of female and male camp counselors my age vary quite differently. My female friends who have worked with kids will share their experiences, and throw in such gems as “We just became best friends!” “We braided each other’s hair!” or the classic of “We get along so well that I take them to go get Doodles every Thursday!” I typically nod my head and try to act like that’s a perfectly relatable thing, knowing full well that earlier in the day I had my knees bashed in by small blonde girl clad in Limited Too brandishing a whiffle ball bat. My male counter parts often don’t suffer the same whiffle bat related injuries, nor do they receive any negative attention at all. The one glaring reason of course being my age, even though I work with female colleagues of whose age is less than mine. Whenever I get a break from making sure one boy doesn’t lodge his Rocket Raccoon Lego into the eye of another child, I like to observe these interactions between counselor and small seven year old hellion. The younger counselors receive a big sister type treatment, hair braiding, patty cake like games, drawing their names in flowy vibrant writing. The more mature (and I use that word so that in case my coworker sees this she won’t flay me alive) female counselors are treated much alike a mother figure or a nanny. The older guys get relegated to a dad-like position of understood respect and prestige. Me on the other hand, I get placed in some weird fourth category that’s an odd mix of older brother and bachelor contestant. The former gets his flesh torn asunder by bedazzled nails, as a cascade of dodgeballs black out the sun, pummeling my surprised self into the searing hot playground turf. The latter receives love letters and hugs while being asked for piggy back rides, drawings, help tying shoes, and requests for more saltine crackers.

There’s no winning either. You have to always be on guard when dealing with the young ones, especially when entering the playground. Just like violent gang members entering the yard in a maximum security prison, the kids run into the playground with the full intent of ending another living creature’s life. Typically it’s just a poor colony of rolly pollys that receive their murderous wrath, other days I feel like someone just declared the Hunger Games have started and this four year old is about to strangle me to death with a jump rope. Often one may see a feudal system evolve each day, with de facto rulers claiming their kingdom among a heap of large blue foam construction blocks. This playground czar then sends legions of foam pool noodle wielding children to “kill the big ugly troll man!” After I wipe away the tears, because holy crap how can you just call another human being “a big ugly troll” and act like that’s a socially acceptable thing to do, I mean jeez Edmund that was just a low blow, I try to conscript two or three of the more heavy set children to aid me in my quest of simply trying to not get nailed in the junk. Always befriend the tubby kid, for he will fight to the fictional death a thousand times over if you bribe him with an Oreo at lunch. After all order breaks down and I shamefully find myself wielding two battle axes over a battlefield littered with the bodies of those foolish enough to stand before the battle tempered steel of Aaron the Ruthless, I’ll often have to console the girl who I accidentally nailed in the face with a magical dodgeball. Boys can get hit by a truck and bounce back up. They will possibly shed a quick tear, wipe off their knee and go about their business, but girls, on the other hand, will do all of that, except once they’ve wiped the tears away, they go into this Hollywood style vendetta of making sure the person who hit her with a dodgeball is decapitated.

Aside from the gangland style beatings I receive from the kids, I do enjoy working with them. It teaches me how to be a more responsible person by putting other’s wellbeing and happiness before my own. Just watching the kids interact with each other reminds oneself of what it was like to be a kid living worry-free, oblivious to the evils of life. Great social skills also arise from the situations you deal with. I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything else, especially having met such wonderful and bright kids as I have. Sure, the kids can be little technology- saturated brats every now and then, but so can every other human being above the age of 10. I’ll go ahead and say it, if you can somehow console a crying five year old who just witnessed her favorite doll get her head torn off by another child, you can console your intoxicated friend who is now crying because her McDonalds order did not include that Mcflurry she so desperately wanted.