Growing up I always wanted a little brother. I remember asking my parents for one when I couldn’t have been more than 3 years old. My father, blunt as always, said that I could have my mom or a brother. The thing was, my mom was forty when she had me and more kids were never really an option. I didn’t quite know what he meant at the time, but ultimately I chose Mom anyways. I pretended like it was my decision.
I’ve been working at a camp all summer. There are little kids scattered around me at all times, ages 4 to 12. While the little girls dip in and out smelling of sugar and sunscreen, the boys seem to hang by my side. I’ve collected a crew of little boys by now, all of whom I’d like to take home for a few days. I’ve always gotten along with little boys. I babysat little boys for as long as I can remember, only ever babysitting a girl when she was a sibling of the older brother. While this odd gendering happened by chance, it’s allowed me insight into a world that I wasn’t apart of growing up. As the only daughter in a female dominated household, I never saw into the lives of little boys until I was older and I started taking care of them myself.
I’ve always loved kids. Growing up as an only child, I wasn’t surrounded with crying babies and screaming toddlers like many of my friends were. Because of that I came to appreciate these babies, these foreign creatures, in a way that I don’t think my friends were able to at that age. I understood that they weren’t just crying, screaming monsters. They were little humans that just wanted love and warmth like all the rest of us. They were just still trying to work out the right words to tell us.
The kids start rolling in during the first few weeks in masses of 50, then 100, then far over 200. At first they just seem like collective masses of screaming, little humans. It takes me some time to get used to my role as a camp counselor, and I don’t get to know the kids until after I’m used to my day to day routines. But once I do, I’m blown away by them.
The thing with kids is no one’s taught them how to be yet. They’re still in this state where no one’s really screwed them over. They still believe in the good of things because they honestly haven’t seen much bad yet. They’re all just tiny humans going out into the world, fresh-faced with a spirit and vigor that no one my age seems to have any more. They have this way of reminding us of what’s really important. That there are still good people in the world, that we are still good people.
Eventually I find three little boys who especially tend to stick by my side. A 4-year-old, a 7-year-old, and a 10-year-old. I’ll refer to them by their ages in this article for the sake of their privacy. These kids brought out a side of me that I hadn’t seen in a long time. The side I like to think would’ve come out if I’d ever had a younger brother myself.
Four was constantly coming up to me with new anecdotes about his life. His family just moved to Los Angeles from the midwest. As I’d gone to school there for the past two years, we often talked about snow, sledding, and bugs. He had the baby lisp that no one seems to grow out of until after kindergarten and his hair was just as bright as my own is after I bleach it. We looked so similar, in fact, that one counselor began referring to him as “my kid” whenever she saw us together.
The thing that struck me about Four was his loyalty. He’d always check in on his friends, periodically keeping tabs on how they were feeling. He was always reaching out to hold my hand and pull me through his little maze of toddlerhood. He’d pull me aside to tell me he was having a good day just because he thought I should know, followed by an "Are you having a good day too?" There was something that felt more sincere when he asked than when adults asked me. So on the days that I wasn’t having a great time, I felt obligated to tell him just that. And when those days hit, he always went out of his way to check on me in the same way he’d check on his own friends.
When you start going to camp at a young age, you begin to realize the older boys act differently than you. They’re pushing each other a little bit harder. Suddenly their scraped knees from the playground turn into bruises and punches. They don’t hold hands or hug to show affection; they fist bump and nod subtly to each other. These boys don’t f*ck around and aren’t afraid to remind you. But right now, Four is still a toddler and none of this seems to matter all that much. When he falls down, he’s so close to the ground that he bounces right back up. He’s got baby fat padding his cheeks and there’s dirt and pennies in his stomach. No one’s told him to "man up" or "grow a pair." No one’s told him how to be.
Seven carried with him many of the same qualities that Four did. He too wanted to take me into his world. We’d pretend to be birds together and fly across the playground in a way that felt so weightless I almost believed we were actually flying. He was Ten’s younger brother and while they bickered, neither of them ever lost their smiles. Seven was a bubbly kid with a surfer haircut and a giggle so infectious you couldn’t help but smile. He was the kind of little brother I’d asked my parents to give me. He brought out my silly side. One that I’ve been afraid to let out for a while at the risk of embarrassing myself.
At times I could tell he was scared shitless. You started off slow with scratches and dirt covering your face from long days playing soccer out back with a friend. You were used to things as Mom laid them out for you: apples cut into tiny chunks, triangle cuts of PB&J, juice diluted with water to make it last, and the occasional ice cream cone from down the street. But as you’re getting older people start to tell you that you don’t need your apple cut up for you anymore. While you know this is true, you’re not upset by the new shape as much as the fact that something has changed. Seven had a way of braving these changes that I respected him for. I could tell he was scared, but that never seemed to stop him from trying something out.
Ten was the kid that, in his own way, saved my life this summer. He was your typical slick, charismatic athlete with far too much knowledge for his age. He was the kid who was literally always by my side. This was a sort of stability that I’m not used to, especially with male figures in my life. He’d follow me everywhere I went, but not because he wanted something from me. He was just curious about what I was going to do next and just wanted to talk to me while I did it. He’d constantly try to pull the rings off my hand or pull my arm around him so he’d stay awake during a bad movie. He was always there, even when he wasn’t supposed to be.
One day he hurt his knee on a pole and instead of freaking out or blaming me for something, he sat quietly for awhile. Of course I initially took his silence as my cue to panic, but as I sat with him and watched him slowly start to cry, I realized he was just trying to act tough. So as countless kids ran around us continuing to go about their days, we just sat together. I told him about the first time I broke my foot and how I broke the same foot only two years later. He laughed at my stories and started trying to bend his knee again. Eventually he stopped crying, but we kept talking for awhile, discussing the nature of pain and what it really means to be hurt. It was a more intelligent and genuinely interesting conversation than I’d had with many adults.
These kids allowed me to be vulnerable again. Maybe it sounds cliché to say that they reminded me what it means to be carefree, but they renewed something about human nature to me that I’ve been missing for these past few years. And maybe that’s because I had to grow up pretty fast. I was raised in Los Angeles and the kids I hung out with were in all too much of a hurry to grow up.
But these kids found a way to crack open not only my silly side, but my nurturing side, my carefree side, and my protective side all at once. Going into the summer, I knew I’d never see them again after those few months, but I never thought I’d miss them this much. At times it felt like I was handed the three little brothers I always wanted, and to have them vanish from my world as quickly as they came into it was startling to say the least. There’s something so profound about the connections two people can make, no matter how old they are. Human connection is, and always will be filled with rich, deep, and ultimately jarring times. The types of relationships you can make with a kid are just as strong as those made with adults; they just exist on a different level. These kids helped me heal in a way that no therapist or medication ever did. When I was watching them play with Legos or start a game of soccer, I suddenly wasn’t concerned with the opinions of others or the negative side of life that I’m so constantly brooding upon. I was in the moment with my boys, and I was ready for whatever came our way.
The little boys I’ve met have filled me with more joy and sadness than I ever thought possible. From wet socks to post-it note secrets, these are the kids that have reminded me what love means on days when I truly thought there was none left in the world. Nothing can beat a wrap-around-the-leg hug from a four-year-old on a rough day. So here’s to my little boys: to the Pokemon star, the bug lover, the dancer, the twin, the lover of Greek myths, the penny swallower, the soccer star, the best little brother, the hugger. Here’s to the best of the little boys.
