When you hear “summer camp,” you might picture kids whisked away in vans, lugging haphazardly packed duffel bags, shipped off to some far-flung campground for a summer of “character building” and kumbaya bonding. Well… yeah—if you’ve watched enough movies, that’s exactly what you’ve seen.

The reality? Not all camps are like that. Some are closer to home, don’t require bug spray rations, and the only wildlife you’ll encounter is a rogue pigeon wandering into the gym.

Ours was a day camp—part school district, part Parks and Rec—all babysitting.

Hosted at the local community center—the kind of place that effortlessly flips from wedding receptions to bingo nights to kids’ camps without missing a beat. No cabins, no campfire songs, no counselors named “Moose.” Just five days of pure, unfiltered chaos—kids camp style.

Instead of sprawling campgrounds, we had a large indoor space—a “quinceañera hall” repurposed as an all-inclusive arena for the behavioral arts of summer. Closest to the kitchen, tables were set up in a makeshift circle—perfect for budding artists to sling paint, mold clay, and generally make a mess before calling it art. In the far corner, tumbling mats sat beside miniature soccer goals for P.E. Outside, there was a “multipurpose grass area”—really just the side garden, but “multipurpose grass area” sounded much better on the flyer.

Every morning, kids tumbled in like a small-scale stampede—some still sleepy, some bouncing like they’d already downed three Capri Suns. We ran two shifts: mornings from 8:30 to 11:30, afternoons from 1 to 4. In between, I drank enough coffee to keep a small town awake and wondered how kids never run out of energy.

I always greeted the munchkins at the door, crouched like a catcher, handing out “low fives” as they bounced in. At just a smidge taller than a yardstick, most of these little changuitos could barely reach my hand, but they’d leap like it was the final jump in the Olympics. Some were still rubbing sleep out of their eyes, others came in already vibrating with enough energy to power the ceiling fans.

Within minutes, they’d scatter—half to the art tables, half to the tumbling mats—and the quiet, orderly room I’d set up that morning transformed into a living, breathing piñata of noise and motion.

The activities were a curious mix of old-school classics and “wait, what even is that?” Take crab ball, for instance—a wild twist on soccer where the players crab-walk around: hands and feet on the ground, backs arched like crustaceans trying out for the circus. It’s part athletic challenge, part slapstick comedy, and all chaos—complete with more than a few spectacular near faceplants that had everyone clutching their sides with laughter.

Picture this: crab ball stance — kiddos sit on their bottoms, palms and feet flat on the ground. The whistle blows, and a dozen kids launch into crab mode, legs flailing, arms wobbling, backs stiff as a board, walking on their hands and feet like little crabs freshly scooped from the ocean. They can take three steps in any direction before passing the ball. Strategy? Pass and score. Simple.

On defense, it’s a chaotic scramble to steal the ball—arms flailing, legs kicking—as everyone desperately tries not to faceplant. Picture a dozen tiny crabs scuttling frantically, bumping into each other, legs tangling, and every so often pausing mid-game to readjust their crab stance or let out an exasperated sigh.

Watching this pack of pint-sized crustaceans chase a ball is equal parts adorable and hilarious—almost like a dozen tiny human bumper buggies in a frantic, sideways dance. They bounce off each other, limbs flailing wildly, struggling to keep balance while chasing a rogue ball that seems to have a mind of its own. Every collision triggers a symphony of giggles, protests, and the occasional, “Hey! Watch it!”

It’s chaos, sure—but the kind that leaves everyone breathless, grinning, and ready to do it all over again.

Apparently, twenty minutes is an eternity in crab ball — long enough for legs to wobble, arms to lose feeling, and for at least three players to debate whether their crab walk qualifies as “advanced” or just “awkward.”

Juice break — Capri Suns all around. Fuel for the little critters, recharging their crab legs and refilling their giggle tanks before the chaos resumes.

Then there’s “chain reaction,” where the real test isn’t speed but how quickly you can pass a hand squeeze down a line without getting totally derailed by a full-on giggle attack. Here’s the setup: two lines of kids, a ball at one end, colored cards at the other. I call out a color, they scan their cards, then squeeze the hand of the person behind them. That squeeze sets off a ripple down the line until the last kid grabs the ball. First team to snag it wins. Simple, right? Until the giggles kick in.

One afternoon during chain reaction, everything was humming along—squeezes zipping down the line like a well-oiled machine. Then, right in the middle of the red team’s run, little Miguel got distracted by a fly buzzing near his ear. Instead of passing the squeeze, he started swatting at thin air, sending the ripple off course.

Next thing you know, the squeeze arrives at Sofia’s hand—who had no clue what was happening—and she burst into giggles. That sparked a full-blown laugh attack down the line. By the time the last kid grabbed the ball, everyone was doubled over—some clutching their sides, others wiping tears from their eyes.

It was less “chain reaction” and more “chain distraction,” but honestly, those moments made the game worth playing.

On Wednesdays, “relay kickball” took center stage. The contest of all contests (at least for the kiddos). Think kickball, but with extra bases, extra chaos, and definitely extra yelling.

Relay kickball is kickball’s wild cousin. In regular kickball, one kid kicks the ball and the defense tries to get them out. Yawn, right?

Relay kickball cranks up the chaos: once the ball is kicked, the entire defense has to 1) retrieve it, 2) form a line, and 3) “relay” the ball hand-to-hand down the line to record the out. Meanwhile, the kicker keeps running, scoring a point for every base they safely touch before the out is made.

Here’s the twist: if the relay breaks or the ball gets dropped, the defense has to start the whole relay back at square one. It’s like a game of hot potato meets track and field—with a dash of yelling for good measure.

The whistle blew, and the game was on. Red vs Blue. Marcos stepped up and smacked the ball with all his might, sending it bouncing toward the far fence. The defense sprang into action like a pack of startled meerkats.

Step one: retrieve the ball. Christian dove, missed, and ended up rolling into the miniature soccer goal.

Step two: form a line. The kids scrambled to get in order—some facing the wrong way, others bumping into each other like bumper cars at a county fair.

Step three: start the relay. The ball flew from hand to hand, but about halfway down the line, little Rosa’s grip faltered. The ball slipped and bounced off her elbow, skittering onto the grass.

“Back to the start!” someone yelled, and the defense scrambled to begin again. Meanwhile, Marcos was still rounding bases, a grin plastered across his face like he was in a slow-motion victory lap.

Every failed relay sparked a chorus of groans, laughter, and frantic whispers of, “Okay, this time we got it!” The chaos was delicious—equal parts determination, friendly sabotage, and the pure joy of sibling rivalry played out on a makeshift field.

The red squad got flattened by the blue squad 175 to 126.

Arts and crafts time was the perfect transition—after all the chaos and competition, the kids got juiced up in a way that made hyperactive monkeys look downright sleepy. And as much as we love the energy, no one wanted to recreate the sun inside our little space.

The kiddos didn’t just make art—they lived it. Sometimes they even wore it. One thing was for sure: it all went home with them. This summer, we made paper-mâché piggy banks of every color, size, and shape you could imagine. Our local credit union kindly donated rolls of quarters so the kids could fill their banks with some serious pocket change.

We crafted hand puppets from brown paper bags and colorful felt. My favorite was an elaborate peacock created by the shyest little human you’d ever meet—so quiet, you’d swear she was the puppet herself.

The kids’ favorite? Flubber. Not so much for the parents, who spent the week chasing that gooey menace out of clothes, hair, and every nook and cranny imaginable.

Flubber—think of it as the lovechild of glue and a chemistry experiment gone slightly rogue. It’s gooey, squishy, and somehow manages to slip through the tiniest cracks like it’s got a personal vendetta against your floor. Watching the kids make it was like witnessing a sticky, slimy symphony of chaos: hands dipped in, swirling, squishing, and occasionally flicking blobs across the room as if trying to start a gooey Jackson Pollock movement.

Every batch came with a warning label in invisible ink: “Will stick to everything but the container.” Shirts became walking science projects, hair turned into gelatinous sculptures, and the phrase “Not in your hair!” was shouted at least thirty-seven times before snack break.

Midway through Flubber-making, little Rosa got a bit too enthusiastic. She flicked a glob with the precision of a seasoned artist—but instead of landing in a bowl, it flew straight onto Mr. Velez’s—yep, my—baseball cap. There it stuck, wobbling like a jellyfish doing the cha-cha.

I froze for a second, then burst out laughing as the kids pointed and giggled. “Looks like I’m officially part of the art now,” I said, peeling the wobbling blob off my hat before it turned into a permanent accessory.

From that moment on, Flubber wasn’t just a craft—it was a full-contact, slapstick masterpiece.

Pool days are always a hit. I mean, who doesn’t love getting drenched and walking around smelling like chlorine all day? It’s the unofficial scent of summer chaos—and the kids wear it like a badge of honor.

But the real highlight of the summer? The visit from the fire department. What started as a straightforward lesson on fire and water safety quickly turned into a full-blown spectacle, complete with suits, a shiny fire truck, and wailing sirens that had the kids’ eyes as wide as saucers.

Then came the unexpected twist—a tug-of-war challenge: 20 munchkin campers versus eight confident firefighters. Spoiler alert: those eight fine men seriously underestimated the power of a bunch of sugar-fueled kids.

The firefighters pulled and strained, muscles bulging, but the kids—well, let’s just say those little monkeys weren’t going anywhere. Not an inch. Not a millimeter. The firefighters were left tugging on air while the kids stood their ground like tiny, determined warriors.

It wasn’t even close. And somewhere in the back, I swear I heard the fire chief mutter, “Next time, bring backup.”

As a wet reward for their triumph, the kids basked in the cool spray of the firehoses—grinning from ear to ear, drenched and triumphant, soaked in victory and the unmistakable scent of summer fun. (Sorry, parents—definitely not a planned wet day…)

Mealtime was the one moment the kiddos behaved like actual humans—well, as normal as a bunch of sugar-fueled kids can be. Our Neighborhood House provided lunch, and this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill cafeteria fare. We’re talking handmade hamburgers with crispy fries and fresh fruit, tender baked chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, savory carne asada with fluffy rice, classic spaghetti and meatballs, and, as a special treat, the kitchen staff showed up one day to help the kids make their own French bread pizzas—messy, fun, and totally worth the extra cleanup.

And so it went… five days stretched into two weeks, and before we knew it, summer was gone.

Those whirlwind weeks of laughter, chaos, and unexpected friendships slipped by faster than anyone wanted. The community center slowly returned to its usual rhythm—no more paint-splattered tables, no more crab-walking chaos, no more tiny hand squeezes ricocheting down the lines. But the echoes of those summers—sticky fingers, triumphant grins, and the smell of sun and chlorine—lingered long after the last kid went home.

In the end, it wasn’t just a day camp; it was a small, messy, joyful celebration of childhood itself.

Definitely not your typical summer camp—but then again, that’s what made it unforgettable.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.