Big Ugly Man Doll

So there I was, looking up at the Geek of 6th Grade, who was dangling from his harness 40 feet in the air. Not the geek of MY 6th grade, mind you – that was Mitch Prothro, and Mitch if you’re reading this… Hi!

I was volunteering last Saturday at a 3-day camp for Kids Who Think They’re Smarter Than The Rest Of Us And Whose Test Scores Indicate They May Be Unfortunately Correct. The Human Tape Recorder, who attends the school for these kids, was among the campers but not, to my chagrin, among those dangling 40 feet in the air. The activity was called High Ropes, but should really be called “Don’t Feel So Damn Smart NOW, Do Ya?”

I was ground crew help, which means I swing the ropes on the zip lines over to the next climber, get the kids from that activity to lunch when they’re done, and keep an eye on the sky for anyone doing something improbably ignorant, which is of course highly likely. The first one up and across my section of rope was, well, we’ll call him Charlie. Now, before the professionals suit these kids up, they provide some detailed instructions. One of them was simple: How many Carabineers should you have attached to you when you’re on the Ropes? Answer: “Two, or One, but never None!”

So Charlie gets from one 40-foot-high platform to the next without great difficulty, and grabs for the tree. Standing alone on that high ledge, hands on the tree, he promptly grabs the Carabineer attached to the tree. He then proceeds to unscrew the Carabineer attaching him to the zip line and take it off. Holding on to nothing but the tree and what I have to assume is a firm belief in an Almighty Buddy System, he finally notices me shouting myself hoarse to hook the next Carabineer to his harness. He clipped it on just as a good gust of wind moved the tree he was in. I don’t think he was ever in any real danger of falling, but it certainly got his attention.

He next assayed a less-simple rope crossing whereby one walks on a wire holding a rope, which descends past said wire and is joined by a corresponding rope coming up – you have to switch ropes mid-way.

Let me take a moment to note that this is not easy. This does not look easy even to me. While it might be easier for someone smaller than a Big Ugly Man Doll, 40 feet in the air is not a natural position for most of us, even 10-, 11-, and 12-yr-olds, even smart ones, and my hat’s off to them for trying any of this stuff at all. Mind you, the *really* smart ones picked activities like Fireside Cooking, which kept them warm and fed. So maybe I had the left-side of the bell curve in the first place.

Charlie, bless his heart, got a little more than halfway when his nerve got tangled up in the ropes and he backed himself back up to the tree he’d been on, and asked to be lowered down. I high-fived him once he got to the ground, just for not getting killed – seemed a worthy goal.

The next Charlie up – and they’re all named Charlie, really, at that age, was without doubt the Geek of 6th Grade (Go6G). He was dressed in 1970’s MIT black frame glasses, boisterous bravado, and corduroy pants. It was the bravado that made the outfit complete. He set out across a 3-rope challenge, which was also complicated, right above me. He got about halfway across before he realized that the rope he was holding descended below his feet, and switched ropes. He grabbed first one rope, then another, and was trying to figure out how to grab a third. Knowing that they’re all here because they’re nominally smarter than most, I couldn’t resist cheerleading a bit.

“Come on, it’s an IQ test! You can do it…” That’s when he let go of the other rope to grab the other other rope, with his other other hand. And the Go6G swung like a pendulum from his tethered harness, screaming like a girl.

“Aaaaaaaaaand, you’ve failed.”

To his great credit, he quit screaming quickly and realized that he could now just hand-over-hand to the other side, regardless of which rope was which. Once on the next platform, he too started to unhook the tether and needed a gentle reminder about how many Carabineers should you have attached to you when you’re on the High Ropes? Answer: “Two, or One, but never None!” He tethered himself to the tree and unhooked the old line.

I passed him the line for the next course – a straight up zip line jump – and he tethered himself to that. Flushed from his brush with gravity and now convinced of his awesomeness, he turned his attention to the jump ahead – just hold the rope and leap, and the zip line runs you 20 feet to the next tree. “Guys, hey guys! Watch this!” yelled the Go6G.

Do you know the most common last words of guys under 35? “Hey ya’ll, watch this!”

So the Go6G gets a good two steps back, plants his feet, and jumps out into space, holding the rope with the zip line for dear life. He put a lot into that jump. Now here’s a question – how many Carabineers should you have attached to you when you’re jumping on a zip line? Answer: Not Two.

So when he reached the end of the 7-foot rope still tethering him to the tree, he stopped like he’d hit a brick wall – it looked like an illegal Quidditch move. He once again screamed like a girl, and had to unhook the offending Carabineer mid-flight. Once again to his credit, he managed to get to the other side and down safely. As I high-fived him, I mentioned that he could just claim altitude sickness. I don’t think he even heard me, and his answer was all Go6G: “That was AWESOME!”

Uncowed and unbowed. You go, Charlie.

Of all the myriad ways in which siblings will give each other shit, perhaps none is as timeworn and tested as the bid to de-legitimize one another by telling you that you’re adopted.  My sense is that the ‘stigma’ of adoption, if there still is one, is a holdover from the days of primogenitor, when the adopted child stood to inherit less (if anything) than their siblings.  In this more advanced age, adoption seems to have become so commonplace that the idea of any negative connotations seems laughable.  Just my opinion, I have no data.  (I would state that I have no experience, but I was raised by two wonderful and loving parents who to this day tell me I was not adopted.  In my heart, though, I am certain that I was the bastard love child of John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe – what else could explain my charisma, talent, and good looks?)

Before we get to the rest of the story, a little background is required. 

• None of our children were adopted.  (By us.  We’re accepting bids, though.)
• Number One Son looks so much like me that it’s scary.
• The Reigning Queen of Pink was born with a rare genetic disorder called Incontinentia Pigmenti.  It’s a random genetic whoopsie, not life threatening, but making her nevertheless complicated; at 7 yrs old, her medical chart is twice the size of mine at 40, and she’s had more “procedures” than I’ve had.  She’s been diagnosed as “interesting” in our pediatrician’s office.  When they close the shop and sit around and talk, they talk about her.  (We know this.  They’ve called.)

Back to our story.  The Reigning Queen of Pink, who has the innate sense of primogenitor and privilege so common to the aristocracy, decided she should convince Number One Son that he’s adopted.  This does not actually take much effort, since she’s the youngest – he knows where she came from, but he can’t really remember where he came from.  At 9 yrs old, he’s not gullible so much as suggestible. 

“You were adopted!”

“No, YOU were adopted.” 

“No, I was the only one to come out of Mommy’s belly, you and (the Human Tape Recorder) were adopted!”

Mind you, this is all at top volume (any point worth making is worth making really loud), and right in front of me and SOBUMD.  Deciding I didn’t really want to (A) deal with Number One Son getting all spun up, nor (B) go into a lengthy explanation of adoption and/or their birth stories, I stole a classic line from Calvin and Hobbes, and announced that none of them were adopted. 

“Your brother was NOT adopted, we bought him from Sears.”

“Hey!”

(SOBUMD choked on her wine at this point.)  The Reigning Queen of Pink thought that this was the most wonderful thing she could think of, and laughed marvelously while repeating it. 

Not wanting to let her get too full of her pink self, I told her not to laugh, since we’d purchased HER at K-Mart as a Blue-light special.  Now they’re all laughing, and I hear the Human Tape Recorder muttering something in the next room.  “What was that, Nordstrom-Girl?” I yelled, thinking this would have been a logical progression:  Full price for the first one, Sears for the value discount once we saw what we’d gotten for the money, and finally the bargain hunting. 

Number One Daughter gives me The Look, as only an 11-yr-old can:  “I said I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d paid more for her now.” 

Oh, snap!  I mean, just… Damn.