“This is mad corny.”

And thus my summer began—surrounded by 150 kids from six to 13 years old, many with their own way to tear apart my confidence.

“This activity’s lame.” “This is boring.” “This is corny.” “This project’s wack.” “I hate this.” “This is stupid.” And the ultimate insult: “This is like school.”

I thought I knew what I was getting into. Cambridge Adventure Day Camp—whose mission is to provide a camp experience for inner-city kids—fit exactly what I was looking for in a summer job. Camp seemed like the perfect outlet for my childlike enthusiasm and “Multimedia Madness Specialist” had a nice ring to it—perfect for that résumé next to my transcript declaring “Magic of Numbers.” It was also a fitting title for an English concentrator who spends much of her free time writing. In all my excitement, though, I somehow forgot one simple equation: Reading/Writing + Children + Summer = ERROR.

There were early signs of possible trouble. Other counselors asked if I had intentionally applied for my particular position in disbelief that anyone would willingly supervise the activity formerly known as “Library.” During orientation, when an example was needed for dealing with bored, negative, or restless kids, MMM (as those of us in the know refer to Multimedia Madness) was repeatedly referenced.

So why the delusional optimism on my part? Because I am, and always will be, a giant dork. When I was eight, I was massacring the summer reading contest at my local library. I would walk around, book open, eyes glued to the page. And if that wasn’t enough, I had a penchant for writing short stories, a large number of which involved sarcastic mice narrators. Certainly a chance to write a poem or create a tale or write an editorial would be a fun way to spend a summer.

But here we are in a hot, stuffy room, on the floor, on a beautiful sunny day when the little kids would rather be running around and the older ones would rather be doing the opposite of whatever I suggest. An hour or more to kill, a bi-weekly camper-published newspaper that begs for content, and six-year-olds climbing up the wall—or ten-year-olds providing a screaming symphony, or 13-year-olds trying to stare you down.

Yet I could handle all that. I could take in stride the grumbling, but comparisons to school were a knife to the heart. I wasn’t a cool counselor, I was an adult conspiring to make their lives miserable.

I had set out to make a difference, to make sure these children got a fulfilling camp experience, that they had fun trying new things, and maybe, just maybe I would turn a few towards my world, where words are savored and not dismissed. With my aspirations a bit bruised, I finally figured out why those who work with children often speak in clichés. Because a trite phrase like “It’s the little things that count” is quite often true.

It became apparent that even thinking up new diversions and pandering to their juvenile interests were not going to create a roomful of Mini-Mes, little journalists in the making. So I considered another idea, “They’re kids.” If I wasn’t going to stop the complaints, I was going to distract them long enough to make a difference. In the process, I got to bask in a few triumphs. An excited huddle of campers playing word games like Scattergories or Wheel of Fortune almost forgot they were stuck in MMM. Anti-writing warriors scribing columns about sports and rappers would make my day. Little campers learning how to speak Swahili or write their name in hieroglyphics was awesome. And when a few of those Mini-Mes appeared with their unsolicited contributions to the paper, I suddenly turned into an absurdly affectionate grandmother, oohing and aahing over them like a proud Mrs. Doubtfire.

But a new network of friends—some of whom greet me with an exuberant “Hi, Maggie” on the streets of Cambridge—was worth far more than sticking hardnosed to all the plans. Maybe my room was used more enthusiastically for a group performance of “The Cha Cha Slide” than any MMM activity I had spent hours planning but I could hardly hold that against them. These were my kids now.

Many of my friends regarded my decision to work with children as actual “madness” and at the end of some days I may have agreed with them. But can they feel the pride of watching a group of campers stack carpet mats on their heads in an attempt to bury themselves—certainly a precursor to literary genius? No, I think not.

Margaret M. Rossman ‘06, an english concentrator in Mather House, is deputy editorial chair of The Crimson. Besides learning the art of carpet mat-stacking, she now possesses hand clapping game skills and plans on stealing a few dance moves from the six-year-olds.