Ever since I got out of elementary school, I have grown to dislike younger kids that I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not one of those people that hate all children in general. I’m just bothered by the ones that act like brats and/or older than their age. Call me a stereotypically insensitive guy, but they always seem to get on my nerves. This is a story about how I was the one who needed to grow up.
Of all the mission trips I have been on the most eventful was my trip to the Blackfeet Indian Reservation in Heart Butte, Montana. It was a very eventful week full of many tasks, but the experience that will cling to me for the longest time and triggered my transition to adulthood, was the adoration of a much too independent and attention-starved child named Trenton.
My first lesson in adulthood I learned from Trenton was how to be a policeman to little kids. I had to deal with both physical fighting (kiddie punches) and emotional, (“He’s a poop-head”). I relearned—from my own childhood—that kids don’t always play nice. I had to break up many fights and learned to give kids the option to do the right thing. Not only is this good for kids in general, but the Heart Butte kids deserve a feeling of empowerment through choice.
The second lesson is more fun than emotional. I became a physical and emotionally supportive coach to Trenton, who won a whiffle ball and bat in an “everybody wins” bubble-blowing tournament. After throwing Trenton a few pitches, I knew he needed help batting.
I wanted to fix this right away not only for his benefit, but also my own, as he asked me to run and get the ball after every missed swing. I showed him how to properly hold the bat with his fingers and knuckles. In the end, I just had fun sharing my tremendous four years of Little League knowledge and seeing his face light up as he smacked the ball over my head. As with any sporting activity, injuries are sure to ensue. Trenton wound up on the ground with a bloody knee and did as any kid would do, started to cry. Through the sobs, we decided he needed a Band-Aid. A nice lady from the nearby show-and-tell ambulance applied a bandage while he sat clinging tightly to my fingers. Later in the day, Trenton couldn’t get across the monkey bars with only his wobbly little boy arms. So, he then asked for “help”, and I proceeded to place him on my shoulders and walk on the ground while he “climbed” across the monkey bars. He felt like he made a great accomplishment. It wasn’t his alone.
My third critical life lesson was how to deal with my frustration with little kids. The trick is to just laugh off things that really are not that bad in retrospect but would typically get me annoyed in the past. The best example I remember of this was on the second day, dubbed “Water Day,” as it was the day were the kids spend most of their time playing various water games. If you’ve never felt true frustration then you’ve obviously never been shot unarmed…with a squirt gun…in the face…after just filling it that squirt gun up…through a hole with an eighth-inch diameter…by pouring a water bottle.
This would have angered me in the past, but after Trenton, I laugh it off. After all, it was a pretty hot day out. And I got to splash him back with the rest of the water bottle.