YMCA Fieldtrip 7th Circle of Hell

It occured to me this morning that I beleive have fully recovered from the PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome for those of you without your DSM IV handy) I suffered from the 6th Grade YMCA overnight trip.  To the right is my possy of tards posing in front the the YMCA statue.  I call them tards, because that's what they acted like for the 48 hours I chaperoned their little butts.

Don't be fooled by the precious picture you see of Drew and I atop the mountain looking down into the Morae Valley.  While beautiful, I am pretty sure it was 20 below (okay not 20 below, but damn close to 20 degrees) and we had just hiked up to said spot with our guide, Helen, the mountain goat. 

Helen is to the right, with our group.  This was pre- hike up the mountain when she still held out a glimmer of hope that the kids would not test her patience at every turn.  Helen is about 800 years old and "knows these woods" like the back of her hand.  With such precious knowledge, she dared impart her wisdom and superior hiking skills to a group of about 20 questionably retarded 6th graders and their overly tired chaperones (this was day 2 of said trip). 

Helen, the mountain goat, lost all patience by the time we reached the summit of the trail, that she just sort of stared at the kids in utter disgust and stopped speaking the whole way back down the trail.  Poor Helen. 

The whole debacle of me even going on this trip started with my husband, Jon, signing up, attending the meeting, then realizing there was no way his employees could handle themselves without him physically being present at the office.  This is another story all together titled "workaholic". Because of Jon's issues, he signed me up at the meeting and announced I would be going on the trip to bond with Drew.

Now, granted, I have been on every single field trip with Drew from pre pre school to present.  But, said field trips never lasted overnight, and there were never raging hormones and snotty teenagers involved.  I digress.  As I write these words my hands are shaking and there is a good possibility I might end up curled into the fetal position sucking my thumb before I end the tale ... YMCA: 7th Circle of Hell

The day of the trip parent chaperones were told they could drive their own vehicles to the YMCA camp.  The drive is beautiful up the canyon into the Rocky Mountain forest entrance.  I was grateful I didn't have to ride on the bus (hate bus rides), and decided to carpool with a fellow mother that had a son on Drew's football team.  A much as I like this mother, I wasn't aware of her love of music.  Her love of said music was only enhanced by the loud roaring "hot shit" system she had installed in her cruising wagon, complete with a bopping "sweet ass" bass (sp? fish or base). All this being said, I rode to the YMCA camp, over an hour's drive, feeling like I was in a night club yelling over the music as my friend told me how "sweet ass" her stereo system was and how she "pumped it up" when the boys were in the car and how much they liked it.  As much as I love this friend, she is a total sweetheart, I didn't love the music (sorry lady!). 

Upon arrival at the YMCA camp I realized it was cold there.  Not cold like New England cold biting through your skin, but Rocky Mountain cold with a gusty wind that rivaled New England cold minus humidity factor.  The buses arrived soon after our arrival, and we were told which dorm was which, boys and girls, opposite dorms, and assigned our chaperone groups.  The kids arrived, mass chaos ensued getting their crap off of the busses, and somehow in all of that we managed to get the boys into their dorm, and the girls into their dorms.  The dorms boasted 2 bunkbeds, and a trailer like bathroom.  I was fortunate enough to bunk with three other mothers, AND got the top bunk.  Lucky me.  I was about 6 inches from the ceiling, and I am pretty sure prisoners in southermost work camp federal prisons get better mattresses.

We went straight from the dorms to the main building.  It was there we bonded with what would be our groups for the next two days.  To the right, my group.  Stop laughing.  I learned their names pretty fast, because I had to say them repeatedly about a million times over the next 48 hours.

The groups were divided into what the USAF would refer to as "flights".  Groups of groups, forming a little larger groups.  Each "flight" was assigned different taskings so that over the next 48 hours each group would experience all that the YMCA, and employees had to offer.  Gratefully, our first flight activity was indoors. 

Ungratefully, our second was outdoors.  So cold, bitter cold.  It was at this time I realized my group was drawn like moths to a flame to pick up everything off the ground (sticks, rocks, whatever they found first) like a bunch of ADHD kids that lacked medication intervention.  When they were not acting ADHD, whipping sticks at each other, or rocks, or trying to get into the water, they were refusing to wear their hats, coats, gloves, etc.  I suppose that the ladies of the group of 6th graders thought coats would not show off their clothes, and the boys were being tough.  Regardless, I spent the next two days repeating the following phrase, "put down the stick ... put down the rocks ... stop hitting each other ... put your coat on ... put your hat on ... get your gloves on ... if you get pneumonia I don't want to hear you whining!"

After our second activity of the day, the kids were allowed to go to their dorms to prepare for "dinner".  They were TOLD that they needed to grab everything they would later need to attend the bonfire.  They were to take all of their crap (coats, hats, flashlights, gloves, etc) with them to dinner.  The kids liked their dorms, so much that I had to smoke them out of their room.  Okay, I didn't have to smoke them out, but I am pretty sure the smell of cheap aftershave wafting from the boys dorm did the trick.  I suppose the boys, hormones racing, thought a little cheap cologne might get them some bonfire action.  Gross.  The girls dorm was no better.  Gross.

We had all of our meals at the "cafeteria".  For woodsy delight meals meant to feed hundreds, it was actual okay.  BUT, it was a buffet and my germaphobic anxieties went into massive over drive as I saw the grimy little monsters with their nasty little dirty hands touching all of the food.  Use the tongs/spoons/shovels provided for God's sake!  The level of sound in the cafeteria was deafening.  Pre-pubescent teens covered in cheap cologne/perfume trying to act "groovy" as my mother would say. 

There was a post dinner activity planned for each "flight" after dinner, and pre bonfire.  As the kids sat their eating, being groovy, and chatting away, a teacher stood up and started speaking quietly in an attempt to get their attention.  It was painfully obvious that she was being ignored and her tone got a little louder ... louder still ... louder ... then a sort of shrieking desperation took over her person as she screamed, "boys and girls, do you all want to go to bed at 8 o'clock tonight?!"  I looked at her, in disbelief, thinking, "oh hell, the inmates have taken over the asylum."  The kids pretty much ignored her threat/question then out of the crowd I hear, "SHUT UP!!!!!".  It was my friend with the "sweet ass" radio system in her car.  She proceeded to chew ass and tell the kids what ungrateful fools they were, and turned the time back to the teacher.  It sort of worked.

Our pre-bonfire activity was the swimming pool.  I was not swimming, as were NOT any of the other chaperones.  The kids in our flight were ALL swimming.  The only thing I can say positive about the experience, is that it was WARM in the indoor pool sitting poolside,  Warmth, I had been craving it all day.  I watched the dance of the pre-pubescents ensue and took note of their behaviors.  The boys were acting like 11-12 year old boys.  They wanted to "roughhouse" in the pool, dunk one another, and try to play some ball with the hoop on the side of the pool.  The girls, however, were sitting about waist high in the pool trying to not wet their hair and "trolling" as it were, for the boys to notice them.  I was amazed that some of their parents had purchased their interesting choices of swim apparel.  I think there is more fabric in a washcloth than some of those bathing suits.

When the swim time was almost over, I volunteered to go BACK to the dorms before the boys got there. Of course, they and everyone else had not taken everything they needed with them to dinner for the bonfire later.  I started out on the trail from the pool to the dorms, (not a huge walk ... as long as you don't get lost).  It was pitch dark, and I had a little flashlight.  Out of the darkness I heard my phone ring.  Holy crap, I could get texts!  I stopped myself immediately and texted my friend, who is a professional counselor.  "Help me, I am trapped in the 7th circle of hell ... and I think I am lost, and it's cold."  She told me to hang in there, via text, followed by a LOL LOL LOL!.  This was SOOO not a LOL! moment!

I was officially lost and a 10 minute walk turned into a 30 minute attempt to find the dorms praying I would not die lost in the woods.  I made it to the dorms ... gathered my group of wet headed, refusing to wear their coats and hats crew, and we were off to the bonfire.  Bonfire.  Imagine about 400 kids, give or take, surrounding an ampitheater style bonfire, and YMCA camp employees (early 20's, granola eating tree loving unshaven (girls too) nature lovers) trying to "entertain" the group.  This group?  Unentertainable.  Is that even a word?  It was the case.  My friend and I sat there thinking, "are you kidding me?"  The teacer who shouted the threat/question of an 8 o'clock bedtime tried to again assert her weapon of an early bedtime, to no avail.  Other teachers tried the same.  I was trapped in cheap cologne/perfume and boys that smelled like wet dogs from their pool wet hair experience. 

The poor camp counselors were trying to get the kids to sing campfire songs, and/or participate in their campfire entertainment venue. The kids sort of took to it, but not really. A few were escorted from the bonfire for irrational and disturbing behavior.  It was pitch black, despite the bonfire, and I just wanted it to end... at this point, my life.  In desperation I discovered a tool that shut some of the little monsters up.  I overheard an "F" bomb (and for my Utah friends/family, it was NOT "freak") and I turned on my flashlight and lit it in the kids direction.  Like a deer caught in the headlights, he was mesmerized and at the same time, paralyzed with fear.  My friend and I burst into hysterics.  For the next hour we spent our time randomly turning on the flashlight directly onto kids to see the paralyzed, mesmerized, deer in the headlights reaction.  Good times.

Upon our return to the dorms, I safely tucked in each of my group into their beds.  I told them to go to bed, and bid them farewell.  They were no longer my duty, I headed to the girls dorm.  Upon my arrival to the girls dorm, I hunkered down for a long winter's nap on my prison bunk.  On the first floor of the dorms there was a coffee/tea station.  The 11-12 year old girls, in an attempt to be "cool" all started to help themselves to a late night cup'o'joe.  The mom's in my room, and myself, rolled our eyes, but then realized to our horror, that cup'o'joe shock to most of their systems would keep them up ... all night.

Without a moment's notice, or a chance for me to get on my prison bunk, we had a knock at the door.  Oh, what luck!  Little did I know that one of the three mom's I was bunking with was no less than the 6th grade "queen bees" mother.  Shit. If you don't know what a "queen bee" is, think "mean girls".  A queen bees duty is to squirrel up the hive.  She utilizes her powers with precision passive aggressive behaviors.  It was this behavior that led queen bee and her prey to our door.  A girl fight ensued, complete with hair pulling, and the queen bees mother lamenting the rest of the evening that her daughter was singled out.  Well, hell lady. She's the queen bee! I was so tired at this point, I fell asleep to the lamenting mother's cries of her little queen bee's innocence.

The next morning the day pretty much wrapped up the same as day one.  I repeated over and over for my group to stop picking up sticks, rocks, whipping one another, etc.  Their first activity of the day with their "flight" was a course where they had to cooperate.  I must say, it was pretty hilarious watching these kids try and make the course challenges cooperating.  I texted my friend a few more times that day, and she responded with LOL LOL LOL ... not LOL!  I held onto the glimmer of hope that this was the LAST day, and I would be home in my cozy bed that evening.  Late in the day, mere moments before we finished our last activity of the day, survival (how fitting), it started to snow ... and it was not a little snow, it was Rocky Mountain high snow, fast, furious, and sticking.  We were somehwere in the middle of the woods with the kids making stick forts for survival.  I questioned whether we should head back down the mountain asap, and was greeted with a survival response, "nah, we're good."  Hell.

We finally made it back down the mountain, the dorms were in few, and I'm pretty sure I was in a hysterical dead sprint.  Alas, the busses, 2 freaking hours late because of snow!  This landed all of us, with our stuff, in the main lodge.  My special, special boys?  Well they took it upon themselves to spend their time on the lodge phone.  The phone mysteriously rang suddenly, and I answered it while the boys look bewildered.  "Um, hello, maa'm.  This is the Rocky Mountain Emergency services.  We've received numerous calls in the last few minutes from this phone and wanted to make sure this wasn't a hoax and/or of we are needed?"  What the freaking hell?  This was the last straw, FOR SURE.  I informed the man that I was a chaperone of four boys that were medicated and had missed their dosage that day, and fervently apologized.  His repsonse, "well, if you could keep them off this line, that would be appreciated."  I just stared at them ... all four of them ... in disgust.  I shook my head, I'm pretty sure cussed under my breath, and prayed the bus would step on the gas. 

My group was one of the last to get on bus #4.  Of course.  I got back into my friend's car, with the "sweet ass" jamming radio system, and we headed home to the jamming bass and my head pounding.  The ride, because of the snow, was twice as long, but I didn't care.  I was going HOME!  Drew and I finally got home, and I told Drew that I loved him dearly, but never, ever, ever again would I go on an overnighter with his grade.  Exhausted, I fell into my nice warm down comforter and went fast asleep.

Mooning on second base ...

Today on facebook I read a post from a friend who noted her first grade son wore his first "cup" to baseball practice last night.  She went on to say said "cup" was tested repeatedly by her son who insisted on hitting it with his bat.  This leads me to another thought on boys, and my thoughts that boys are just dumb compared to girls. I can freely say boys are dumb because I have three of my own.  If I didn't have any boys that might just sound mean as hell.  But, alas, I have experience with stupid boys. 

After I read my friends post, recalled my stupid boys theory, it made me think back to when my 12 year-old was first starting baseball.  We lived on a tiny little island called Terceira, in the Azores (think 12X18 mile island in the middle of the Atlantic off of Portugal) on a military base.  My husband is/was/still thinks he is/ an amazing athlete in his prime. He played just about every sport involving some sort of violence and a ball, big or small, baseball to golf.  All this being said, Drew was our ONLY child at the time, and Jon assumed he would of course have passed on his athletic prowess to his son ... alas, again, Jon married me.  My athletic prowess begins and ends when I became an aerobics instructor ... and let's be honest, that's sort of fast dancing instead of a sport.

I digress.  When we signed Drew up for baseball I had little hope for the kids athletics, but Jon was unstoppable.  Jon outfitted Drew head to toe with the best cleats, a new bat, a baseball bag for carrying said bat, a mitt that rivaled the price of a second mortgage, a uniform (which was quite cute on his little bug of a frame at 4 years of age).  SO, the season begins and Drew isn't exactly standing out as an athlete of any sort.  But, with it being a group of 4 years old and t-ball, noone stood out unless they were leaving the field crying.  Drew didn't cry, but Drew wasn't impressed with the game.  He was bored.  And when Drew gets bored, heaven help us all.

The first thing Drew's coach had to teach the kids was outside of hitting the ball off said tee, they then had to run the bases, in order, 1,2,3.  And believe you me, getting the kids to not head in a dead sprint to third base after hitting the ball was a real problem!  The coach finally was able to teach most of the kids the first,  second, third base drill, hallelujiah chorus ensue.  The first game was pretty exciting.  I thought Jon might wet his pants seeing his little genetic code out on the playing field, hunkered down like a little Red Sox player.  (Jon is from New England, all references to baseball will always and forever be, Red Sox because in Jon's eyes, the Red Sox ARE the only team that exists, the rest are just a means to an end for the Red Sox to beat). 

Drew fielded the ball as well as the rest of the kids.  The ball would roll down the field, either fall into the hands of a kid with his mitt on the ground, or roll up the kids feet and nail him in the chin.  Drew opted for the latter option most of the time.  Before we knew it, it was batting time!  We watched the first few kids bat off the tee, and make the base run (only 2 of the 3 had to be coerced into running to first base instead of third).  Drew was finally up, and we cheered like crazy people.  After all, Drew was our first and only child, so we were rather certifiable.  Drew popped the ball off the tee and ran to first base.  Awesome.

The next kid hit the ball off the tee and we screamed at Drew to run to second base.  He did as he was screamed at to do, and he ran to second.  Man on first, Drew on second.  We were pointing and hollering at Drew to get ready to run to third base.  Well ... hmmm.  The next kid to the tee was a tad slower on the uptake, but since this was 4 year old t-ball, each and every kid WAS given the chance to hit the ball ... no matter HOW long it took.  This kid was taking what seemed like forever.  It was a hot spring day, and we were all holding our breath the kid would hit the damned ball.  Everyone was getting bored ... including Drew.

I glanced over to second base to see if Drew had fallen asleep on the base and almost fell over.  Drew had apparently gotten so bored with this kids lack of dedication to hitting the damned ball that he decided he needed to mix it up a bit. Drew, my dear, dear, child, pulled his pants down and MOONED the whole crowd ... including a little booty shake.  I tried like hell to pretend he wasn't my child.  I looked around to try and cast a glare at other parents so people wouldn't think he belonged to them and not me.  My husband was in hysterical laughter and i was pretty sure he would fall off the bleachers at any moment.  I smacked my husband's arm and did the "this is YOUR child glare" and he hollered, "Drew, dude, pull your pants up!" 

This was a small base, very small.  Everyone knew everyone, and everyone talked about the 4 year-old booty shaker for months after.  It was a stellar parenting moment to which I have never publicly written until now.  Drew has not sinced mooned or booty shaken since.  I think the lecture he got after the game cured him of his need to create public indecency.  Drew is 12 now ... and I am hoping this story recreates itself one day if he ever has a boy.

12 ... the googly years

This is Drew.  I think he was almost 11 years old in this picture.  I caught this "moment" shot of him when he wasn't looking ... most pictorials I have of Drew are either taken through threats, "Drew, you will smile in this damned picture, or I WILL take away your cell phone."  Or, the pieta' de resistance', "Drew, if you don't smile while sitting on the large ostrich on the carousel at the Zoo, I am SO posting this photo on your facebook page!" 

Admittedly, I am treading uncharted waters here with three boys ... and Drew is the "oops, our bad, we really screwed that one up" new parenting skills child.  I had a sister that was closest to my age.  Girls, I can handle.  That is predictable nonsense.  Girls fight over petty crap, hold grudges, and whine. Of course my sister and I also lapsed into physical violence if the occasion/grudge was so heinous we flew into rages of hair pulling fury. Okay, second thought, grateful for boys.  Boys fight over petty crap too, but it is physical mind numbing screams, lashes, punches, and sometimes, "I hate your gutts!" is thrown into the mix.  But, it only lasts a few minutes, and Jon and I pretty much stay out of it unless someone draws blood.  And even then, it has to be alot of blood, like maybe a trip to the ER alot of blood.  Any less, and we shrug our shoulders and say, "well, you probably deserved it."

Back to Drew.  I love Drew.  As he gets older, our relationship is getting more casual.  His timing is a little "off" on some of his sarcasm, and Jon and I have to pull the reins in if he gets out of control.  It's a, "Drew, you're 12, that would be super funny if you were 18, it's just obnoxious when you're 12."  Drew is not unlike any other googly 12 year-old boy trying to find his place in the world.  His love of all things Abercrombie has changed to Pac Sun (he thinks he is a skater now).  His alliances change in friendships, and he functions in the mean and nasty world we call middle school to the best of his ability.

In order for Drew to tread these heinous waters, I spend alot of time on the phone with "Uncle Josh".  Josh is my only brother, but so many years behind me in age that I was married and out of the house before he was really entering into his teen years.  Uncle Josh provides saavy wisdom like, "Cort, if you
ground him for stupid shit, he's going to keep doing it.  I promise."  "Oh yeah, you should give him a pass on that one!"  Or my personal favorite, "he's a 12 year-old boy Cort, he's going to like girls, even if he doesn't really clue on on what to do with that whole situation." 

Fortunately the situation, which I can only assume means the kissing of the lady friends has happened one time.  Sorry Mom, yes, Drew has kissed a girl.  Of course, this was in New Hampshire, when he was 10 (God help us all) with a little "tart" that was overly aggressive accompanied by a mother who couldn't comprehend WHY I wouldn't let Drew take her daughter on a date.  After all, they were 9 years-old at the time.  That has to be dating age, right?  The kiss was in said "tarts" tree house, and I am sure very romantic.  Gross.

Ahhhh, Drew.  In closing about my 12 year old son, which I hope one day he will read this when his 12 year old DAUGHTER (yes, I jsut cursed him with a mouthy, whiney, hair pulling daighter) is driving him batty, a few one liners/experiences where Drew and I "bond". 

1.  About once a week I drop Drew off at school because Jon ahs an early morning meeting.  On day one of this adventure, as we pulled into the car pool lane, Drew looks at me, scowls, and says, "you better get your I love you's out of the way now before I get out of this truck."  I wasn't hurt, as much as laughing on the inside that he was so concerned my amore' for my son might reach the overly sensitive ears of his possey.  So, as any good mother would do, I sang, repeatedly, before he exited the car, "I love Drew, yes I do!  I love you I love you I love you, yes I do!" repeatedly.  He can't deny I saw a little grin.  As he opened the car door (sure that my singing was over) I squeeled in delight, "Hey, Drew Eldridge, I love you, remember who you are!"  That received a scowl of death.  But, he didn't stab me in my sleep.

2.  Drew went through the drive pharmacy with me a few months ago.  It was a Walgreen's, and the drive up is sort of like a bank drive through.  As the lady asked over the microphone, "can I help you?"  Drew screams back from the passenger seat, "yeah, do you sell weed here, is this a dispensary!?!"  (We live in Colorado, home to legalized marijuana and Boulder (home to over 100 dispensaries at last report) is the town next door.  John Denver wrote rocky mountain high, not becasue of the beautiful rocky mountains, it was in reference to the contact high we all recieve when we open our front doors.)  I told the lady to ignore Drew, as he had missed his medication that day, had tourrette's syndrome, and couldn't be trusted.  THEN, if that wasn't enough, Drew starts squeeling curling into "armadillo position" and rocking back and forth saying, "make the bad people go away, make the bad people go away mommy."  Hells bells.  I was trying not to laugh, simultaneously wanting to beat the hell out of him.  The pharmacist was NOT amused.

3.  While my verbal cues of affection as I drop Drew off at school are not appreciated, I decided this morning I would show him my love through Dance.  As we entered the drive through of the middle school carpool lane, I opened the sun roof, and began to boogie to lady ga ga.  First, the lasso.  Second, the sprinkler.  Third, the "do I hear a fax coming in?!" fax move.  Drew was staring at me in abject horror as I danced my butt off as much as I could strapped down in my seat belt.  I asked Bradyn to join me, but he said his moves required he be out of his seat belt because they were sweet moves.  Drew glared, told me his life was over, (but I swear I saw a grin), and said, "noone, nobody, not one person should see you dancing!"  So, I said, "oh honey, should mommy get out of the car and drop, pop, and lock it?"  He screamed, "what the hell is wrong with you? (we let hell and damn slip from his tongue if the moment requires)  Yeah go ahead, then I will get suspended, and not graduate from 6th grade!"  It was all I could do to NOT exit the vehicle and show my sweet, sweet moves.  He loves me, he knows it.

4.  One day I threatened to back hand Drew.  He was in the passenger seat, being his mouthy self, and I threw my hand sideways in a threatening, "I will do it" sort of way and he flew into a curled up ball and screamed, "ARMADILLO!"  What the heck.  I burst into laughter and said, "that's a new one, is that what you do at school when the 8th graders come around?"  I can't recall the exact words he used, but I think he said something about this being a tactic for survival.

5.  Drew babysits his brothers sometimes.  I must admit, he is a great big brother when he isn't slamming Bradyn's head into the couch, wall, or whatever is closest to the battle.  He really is good with Caden, and it makes me a proud Mom.  One day I had an appointment and Drew was in charge.  It was one of his first in charge moments ... I returned home to find Caden a little "wired".  Then I noticed this strange red sticky substance all over the kitchen floor.  What?  Yes, it was red volt mountain dew.  Drew informed me he gave Caden some out of his cup, and Caden liked it so much he put it in his sippie cup ... twice, since he downed the first sippie so fast.

6.  If you are racially offended, stop reading.  Remind yourself this is the rantings of a 12 year-old with little tact and even less knowledge of being politically correct.  Drew wants a new skateboard.  I told him he had to earn the money for one.  I suggested he mow the lawn every week, and his Dad and I would give him $10/week.  He started squeeling (yes, he squeels, just like a girl), in abject disgust, "yeah right, what do you think I am?  I am NOT a $1 burrito!  I will not mow the lawn for $10/week!"  The $1 burrito comment was a new one I hadn't heard from him.  I'm not sure, sort of, what it meant, I can only assume it is a reference to migrant workers.  Oh Drew.  I informed him he was mowing the lawn anyway, pay or no pay, and the taco stand up the street sold burritos (delicious burritos I might add) for way more than a dollar so he needed new material.

Drew, I love you son and I hope you see 13.  Please remember to keep your grades up because your Dad and I are saving any college money for future therapeutic treatments you will assuredly need in your college years when the world stops making sense and you blame everything on your parents.  A scholarship would be best.