When I was but a wee lass, my parents sent me to summer arts camp. I had so much fun there I went back each year until I was way too old to still be going to camp, and then I cursed the five years they made you wait before you could be a counselor. You see, unlike during the school year, when I was friendless and miserable, camp gave me the first hint that there was nothing wrong with me, the kids I went to school with were just terrible little jerks, and someday I’d move to New York City and have lots of artsy friends and throw fun loft parties and eat ice cream for breakfast. Also, there were boys there. Cute boys.
Any children I may someday have are going to summer arts camp, too. (I’m operating on the assumption that my kids will be just like me.) Here are some reasons why.