Young farmers
Beth dropped the boy off this morning around 8:30. Apparently I agreed to this.
He played Webkinz again, and we hung around the house for a bit. Then lunch, and then The New Camp.
The New Camp is at an organic farm in our town. It’s run, it seems, by a collective or mostly attractive neo-hippies. Then again, anyone under 30 looks attractive to me.
When we got there, the boy was, as I expected, apprehensive. We found where his group (Young Farmers) was going to be meeting (the Barn). As we were looking at the sign, a woman with a son and two daughters said, “Oh, another Young Farmer.” The boy was not happy.
“I’m not going to Young Farmers,” he scowled.
“OK. but that’s your age group,” I told him.
“No way. It’s for toddlers.”
“Oh! You thought that those little girls were going to be in your group. No, only the older boy. He’s about your age.”
That calmed him down for a bit. We got back to the barn where Courtney, the counselor, was passing out name tags. These were really neat name tags: the names were written on little disks cut from a branch. The boy threw his to the ground and stomped on it.
“This is the boy,” I said to Courtney.
“You’re not dropping him off, are you?” she asked.
“Oh no.”
“Good!” she said.
Then Courtney smiled at the boy. “Do you know someone named April?”
The boy was intrigued.
“Yes, she was my first baby sitter,” he said.
“I met her yesterday, she came to my yard sale,” Courtney said.
Well thank God for that. It still took him a little while to warm up to the group, but within 20 minutes he was talking and answering questions.
Beth came by at around 1:30 as we agreed. The odd thing about dealing with Beth these days is the lack of emotional content to our interactions. Cold, cold, cold.
The reason I had to leave was that I need to go see my trainer. If there’s anything goofier than a middle-aged guy working out with someone who looks like a smaller Tony Robbins, I’d like to see it. He has me doing all the normal things you’d expect, treadmill, weights, stretches. But apparently he got into boxing a couple of years ago, so as part of my workout, I don (yes “don”) some gloves and go at him while he holds a cushion.
Jab. Reverse. Hook. Upper cut. Over and over.
It’s remarkably cathartic.