Our oldest spent the last week going to camp. He’s now home, and constantly singing songs about bringing baby bumblebees home and getting swallowed by large snakes and how you can’t get to heaven in certain vehicles or tennis balls. Because those sorts of songs must be sung eternally. He’s in a deep mourning for the fact that he will likely not be able to return to camp next summer, as we’ll be settling into our new lives in France.
My favorite story from his week isn’t one that he told me. Oh no, it’s one that the camp nurse told my husband. Our son sprained his finger the third day of camp, so we had him visit her twice a day for wrapping and icing. She called to update us on his swelling and pain levels several times. And each time she mentioned what a reader (and talker) our boy is.
On the fourth night of camp, many of the campers experienced some pollen-exposure sickness, where they were having shortness of breath and wheezing. Our guy was at the nurse’s office waiting for his icing and bandage treatment. When he saw the other campers waiting, he picked up the Bible and began to read out of the Gospel of Mark with dramatic flair, including a semi-British accent for God and a nasally voice for Jesus. The other kids listened to him quietly as they waited for the nurse, and she was so grateful to have had him as a distraction for the other campers.
He is seven.
And he’s amazing.
(On a side note: I made the mistake of telling Michael, in our son’s hearing, that I had tested our son’s reading level, and that he was seven grades ahead of his peers, and it has become a source of improper pride for him. So of course, our son announced it to the nurse. And everyone else at camp… Sigh. New homeschooler mistake. By our last child, I’ll have this thing down, but until then, I’ll keep on making these kinds of mistakes.)