Jungle Gym Dreams

By TAD BARTIMUS

The moon was the color of honey, waves lapped on the distant shore, gardenia scent hung heavy in the air. There we were, my significant other and I, outside at midnight, taking it all in as well.

We lay wide awake atop a jungle gym platform surrounded by 32 11-year-olds determined not to obey, not to go to sleep and to get into as much mischief as possible in the 12 hours left on their campout.

"I must have been nuts," I grumbled to my spouse, reaching for another Motrin. "What possessed me to volunteer for this? These kids all have parents. Where are they? I'll tell you where they are. They're sound asleep in their own beds!"

We raced from one activity to another; they studied science by identifying tide pool creatures, wrote constantly in their journals, indulged in serious physical training ("MARCO!" "POLO!" "MARCO!" "POLO!") at the aquatic center.

They were not, as I was, trying and failing to ride herd on a pack of pre-adolescents wired on soft drinks, chocolate, ice cream and emerging hormones.

Even as I groused, I secretly admitted I was having fun. On the excuse that I had to do it because it was part of the itinerary, I got to eat pizza with pepperoni, play hooky at the aquarium, go bowling, eat more pizza, and swing on a swing. I also told corny jokes and belly-flopped in the pool, reverting to grownup mode only when I banned foul rap lyrics on my car's CD player and swear words that "just slipped out, honest!"

We older folks forget what it's like to be young. We hit our 20s and BAM! Most of us are responsible, serious and, let's face it, boring. From the minute I nosed my car into the caravan I knew I was in for a marathon. No rest breaks. No naps. No La-Z-Boy. Bummer. But the youngsters' energy and enthusiasm was contagious. I felt the burdens of adulthood slipping away, like, uh, you know, uh, like predicates and pronouns, uh, you know, like, way cool!

We raced from one activity to another; they studied science by identifying tide pool creatures, wrote constantly in their journals, indulged in serious physical training ("MARCO!" "POLO!" "MARCO!" "POLO!") at the aquatic center. They sang for tourists at a hotel cookout in exchange for all the Shirley Temples they could drink. They thought they got the best deal; the wildly applauding audience clearly disagreed. I was so proud I had tears in my eyes and clapped until my palms stung.

But the inevitable consequence of hanging out with 11-year-olds, unless you are one, is that you run out of gas before they do. "When," I asked my teacher husband, "do you expect them to collapse?"

"Three-thirty."

As in, 3:30 in morning? A.M.? Midnight came and went. Like a disobedient soldier at her post, I dozed off.

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! THE COPS ARE HERE!"

I opened my eyes to a thousand-watt flashlight and a gruff voice demanding to know, "What's going on here?"

Turns out that despite being in a public park, we'd spread our sleeping bags out in a No Public Camping zone. But we weren't the public, we were sixth graders. For the first time in nearly 24 hours the kids were struck dumb. A police uniform has the same effect on me, too. Especially when I'm huddled under a plastic blanket, in a grimy sweat suit, on top of a jungle gym, at 3 a.m.

It quickly sorted itself out and we seized our ally where we found him.

"Kids," said the Man in Blue, "if you don't go to sleep right now I'll be back."

It was as if Arnold Schwarzenegger himself had shown up on the playground; The Terminator had spoken. We got two hours' of shut-eye before the sun rose on another exhausting day of play.

It's hard being a kid. I hope I'm rested up enough by next year to do it again.

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