Now wait one second

This week, we took the boys to a science museum on the OTHER side of the state from us.

Here’s how the day started:

We get up. We get showered and dressed. We grab a quick bite to eat (bagels). We grab some drinks and snacks and head out the door.

In an hour to 90 minutes, we should’ve been there, however, we missed the turn.

Yep. And, with Mr. Nevergetslost at the wheel, I was SURE we would get there without getting lost.

But, we missed the exit… and before I knew it, we were nearing the George Washington Bridge.

“Uh,” I said trying to NOT be a know-it-all pain in the ass, “I think we missed it.”

This was followed by a few mumbled words and three lane changes until we were (mostly) safe along the side of the road, just outside of the toll booth (because, in Jersey NOTHING is free).

“The map says…” I am the official navigator. That has been my title since forever. I can read maps. And, for a woman, supposedly that’s a hard task. PISH POSH I say. Map reading is easy, men just don’t like to stop to ask for directions.

“I need to SEE the map,” husband said, taking the map from my hands.

“We missed it 10 miles back,” I said, my voice trailing as I looked out the window at the speeding semis passing us.

“I KNOW WE PASSED IT,” said my usually calm husband who was starting to get annoyed with the whole situation. For a change, it was nice to NOT be the angry one.

So, we pulled back onto the road and began to look for an exit that would allow us to turn around. 10 MORE miles later, two highways, and an exit… we were heading back in the right direction.

By the time we arrived, we had been on the road for over 2 hours.

However, we were excited to FINALLY see the museum and therefore, all notions of freaking out ended with our entrance into the parking lot.

But, it returned after we went inside and were bombarded with the MOST unruly camp groups.

Now, when I used to work for a living history museum, way back in the day (like 5 years ago), I despised camps. School groups were usually ok since their teachers usually had enough chaperones to control the monsters in their group. HOWEVER… camp groups are a different story. And, camp groups from various parts of NYC are even more challenging.

I could count on five sets of hands the amount of times my little one was shoved out of the way so some kid who pretended to NOT speak English could touch the hands-on stuff. I could also count on five sets of toes how many times camp counselors did NOTHING to control the bad behavior exhibited by the kids.

I kept trying to remind myself that CITY KIDS are different than RURAL and SUBURBAN kids because they are more aggressive.

Case in point: We’re at this bubble-making thing. A big, long metal rod lowered by ropes into a vat of bubble-making solution. You pull on the handle and the big, long metal rod rises up, making a large bubble.

#3 son waited his turn, amidst a HUGE group of little Chinese kids. Finally, it was his turn to stand by the bubbles, next in line to actually PULL the handle. We were there 15 minutes. Just as he stood in front of the vat, a little Chinese girl, OLDER than he by at least a couple of years, shoves him out of the way. I said, “Excuse me, he was here first.” This is what I got in return, “No speak English.” YES, my friends, 150 little Chinese kids are at the museum the SAME time as us and NONE of them would admit to speaking English. Something was quite fishy, especially since I had JUST heard her speaking English. Sure, I don’t speak CHINESE, but you don’t see me pushing small kids outta the way.

I looked to the camp counselor who was standing across from us and said, “Uh, your’s?”

“No speak English,” he said raising his hands in the air.

“Bullshit,” I said. (It was more like a sarcastic, “Suuuure you don’t.”)

30 minutes and two floors later, we’re in another area called “Communications.” We waited for the line to subside at the “graffiti” thing that has this infrared “spray can” that shoots this light beam onto the screen, which looks like bricks, and when the light hits a color, you can spray anything you want onto the screen IN that color. It’s really cool.

Finally, all of the kids were gone and we stepped up for our turn. I drew a big, fat pink heart and some squigglies. #3 made a mish-mosh of multiple color squigglies. Then, it was #1 son’s turn. The SECOND he put the spray can into his hand, some 8 or 9 year old kid (with his mother and siblings) walks up IN front of us, avoiding standing in line, takes the can out of his hand and proceeds to spray paint some shit on the wall.

I said to the boy, “My son was using that. You need to wait your turn.”

NOTHING. I was almost tempted to check to see if he were deaf.

I looked at his mother, all disheveled and balancing 2 little kids on her hips. “Your son needs to wait in line,” I said. At this point, I’m on my LAST nerve.

“Oops,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Oops? Are you freaking kidding me? There’s no “oops” for line cutters. There’s a stoning in the courtyard followed by a big human bonfire.

I took #3 son by the hand and motioned for #1 son to leave with me when I said, “You people are so goddamn rude.”

YES. That time I did let my potty mouth run rampant.

And, as a response the mother said, “Oops” again. Give me a break.

SO, we had been IN the museum for probably 5 hours total, seeing every exhibit and climbing the stairs to each floor until we were exhausted.

And, the entire time, I carried this survey that they wanted me to fill out regarding one of their exhibits.

And, scribbled along the bottom of this finished survey, I wrote, “You need to get a better grip on these camp kids or regular people won’t be back.”

And, I put little asterisks on either side of my comment, so it would stand out.

When I turned it in (receiving as a “gift” a free ticket to return) the girl asked me how my museum experience was. I couldn’t hold back. I was tired. I was SICK and tired. And, to be honest, I was pissed off.

“It would’ve been better if the camps followed some rules of behavior.”

I took my free ticket and left.

On the way to the car, my normally quiet husband said, “Camp kids suck.”

Ain’t that the truth brudda!

So, what’s the lesson here? Camp counselors are usually 16-18 year olds who a) have no parenting skill/ability, b) want to be fun, and c) probably let the kids loose so that they could have a breather.

Well, guess what? I’ve been both a camper AND a counselor and I can tell you that neither time would rude or poor behavior ANYWHERE been shrugged off and ignored. We had rules. We followed the rules. Kids were given the riot act before exiting the bus regarding these rules. And, god forbid ANY of the kids misbehaved, they would’ve been sitting in a chair, by themselves, with the head counselor in charge as a punishment.

Apparently, times have changed…

What made it ALL better, aside from leaving, was going nextdoor to Liberty State Park and seeing Ellis Island and the Statue from the Jersey shoreline.

I love Ellis Island. If they’d let me, I’d explore it for days.

(But, due to security checks and post-9/11 clearances, even if I KNEW the curator, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to roam the grounds. And, after the LAST time that I asked to be given permission to wander the “not for public” buildings, in which I was unemotionally turned down… you’d THINK I would give up on my DREAM. But, alas, I haven’t.

(By the way, if you happen to KNOW someone who CAN get me into the roped off areas to explore, please email me and let me know. I would be so thankful that I’d send you M&Ms, a cool pair of flipflips, and a pin that says, “Herstory Loves History!”)

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