Josh Farnsworth is a national award-winning parenting columnist who lives with his wife and two goofball sons. You can reach him for column ideas at josh.farnsworth@yahoo.com.
About 15 seconds after we pulled up to the campsite, she had them. Hook. Line. Sinker.
My two boys, 9 and 7, jumped out of the truck and inadvertently into the path of a girl (Carly, about 6 or 7) staying just a few dozen feet from us. With a clenched fist, she walked to the picnic table, said hi and slapped down what looked like a handful of mud and grass.
Mostly, because it was a handful of mud and grass—along with a giant, exotic bug sitting at the top, one that matched an identical giant bug crawling all over her face.
“I love bugs!” she announced. Mesmerized, my kids let out a collective “woah.” And at that moment, I knew I lost my boys’ attention for the entire weekend.
Poof, gone. And so was the plan to entertain them and win their approval with the games and foods I had packed to the rafters of the truck.
This bug-loving siren had lured them in and all focus was on her. The bugs were a great start. Carly followed that up with offering to play with them while their thoughtless parents did boring stuff like pitch the tent (lame), make dinner (snore) and generally prepare their lives to survive two nights in the wilderness (seriously, Mom and Dad, are you even trying to vacation?).
Next, she made a power move by bringing over plenty of slime hand toys that you can fling and have stick to anything. And according to Carly’s wisdom, these were not just any ordinary slime toys.
“This is premium slime, the best slime you can get anywhere. Why would you get bad slime anywhere else?” Carly said, describing the quality of slime like a sommelier waxing poetic over a vintage bottle of Bordeaux.
Slime? Swoon. Fancy slime? Double swoon. I hadn’t prepared any talks yet about dating and girls, but maybe I needed to think this one through. If she somehow managed to break out lightsabers and discuss the awesomeness of Jedis and wookies, my boys may have each dropped to one knee and proposed to her out of sheer instincts.
Fortunately, and with great timing, my wife was more successful, finally getting their attention with the promise of a campfire and s’mores. As I prepared the first toasted marshmallow for my graham crackers, this little girl got me thinking: What does a first young crush look like? For me, my first crush came about their age and was about sports. It was the girl who actually tried hard and wanted to play and talk baseball with me, unlike the other girls who couldn’t be bothered.
Her: Sure, I’ll bat leadoff!
Me, blushing: What a woman!
Whether we are smitten by bugs or baseball, however, the real formula for young love’s success? Attention. Despite the juicy bug, time was really the most valuable gift Carly brought to the table that weekend. It was a great reminder that time trumps all gifts. And apparently, that slime is thicker than blood.
The only downside to their newfound friend? My boys’ collective competitiveness kicked in hard. Each time Carly would stand within eyesight, my boys would say or do anything to win her attention—the closest thing they had to romantic affection.
There was no rose on the line, but they competed for her attention most of the weekend. They took turns telling stories that turned into fishing tales; each story getting bigger and bigger, eventually crossing into fiction.
“You jumped into the water from how far away, Michael Phelps?”
“How many times have you counted to 1,000, my young Ivy League school prospect?”
The one-upmanship was truly breathtaking at times, which of course meant a steady stream of bickering and calls for fact checking on each other’s stories. Easy, Casanovas. Pump the brakes on the need to impress this Kindergartener.
This back and forth continued until we arrived at the final day of the trip. My young goofballs began to take stock of the weekend and realize that their time with Carly was drawing short. As they saw the inevitable march of time ending their romantic encounter, a peace offering was shown to them once again by the girl that always showed up for them—bugs or not.
Mom had come through with breakfast s’mores. Swoon.
Sorry, Carly, but even the coolest of camping vixens ultimately fall short of the quickest path to their young hearts: Mom. And chocolate with marshmallows. But mostly, Mom.
That said, thanks for the memories, Carly, as well as the unintentional pointers with getting my young boys’ attention. I’ll be sure to dig up bugs and pack slime for our next camping adventure. The premium slime, of course, from the place you mentioned. Why would I get bad slime anywhere else?
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