I am rolling out my sleeping bag on the bottom bunk. I slide my tote under the bed out of sight. I check my toiletries to make sure I have my toothbrush.

Then I turn and sit for a moment on the edge of the bed to contemplate my decisions in life.

I am at Woodland Christian Camp to play cabin dad to a handful of seven and eight-year-old boys who will be arriving soon. I can almost hear the thunder as the storm approaches.

Summer camp is not new to me. I spent half of my youth in a variety of camps of one kind or another. Scout camp and church camp mostly. I am quite familiar with campfire songs and mess hall food.

In fact, it was at this very camp that I first memorized all the words to “John Jacob Jinglehimer Schmidt.” The first place I ever played my guitar in public. And the first time I held hands, I mean really held hands, with a girl.

That was in the early 1970s.

I am much older now. My feet hurt. And I am beginning to question my sense of judgement which led me to volunteer for this gig.

My real motivation is that Marion and I have three grandkids who will be at camp with us. The two boys will be in my cabin.

“Won’t that be neat,” she said, “to be in camp together with our grandkids?”

I am not a drinking man, but I’m pretty sure that I agreed in a moment of weakness. All I could recall was how summer camp was one of the great highlights of my youth.

The kids start arriving. Little boys with backpacks twice their size. Little girls with sleek suitcases on wheels. I forget how tiny 2nd and 3rd graders can be at this age.

The parents are all carrying sleeping bags and giving last minute instructions. Lots of underwear reminders. Then hugs before racing off to their cars, laughing insidiously, and slinging gravel as they peel out of camp.

The “Welcome to Camp” meeting with all the kids and volunteers went well. We have nearly 70 campers scattered across the floor like a sea of kid sweat.

I could tell that some of the women counselors were seasoned veterans. I saw no fear in their eyes. They walked amongst the kids as giants.

The leaders sent us back to our cabins to get the kids ready for supper. We’d been at camp less than two hours. The boys were swinging from bunk to bunk like Kamikaze pilots.

I heard a whimper from one of the top bunks.

“What’s wrong buddy?”

I thought maybe he was a casualty of the dog fight.

A tiny blonde head looks up at me with tears streaming down his cheeks. He’s got a patch of freckles across his face. His little blue eyes are nearly bloodshot.

“I wanna go home. Can you call my mommy to come get me?”

I may be rusty at being a camp counselor, but my grandpa instincts kicked in and took over. The two of us talked about baseball, his dog Pete, and his favorite ice cream until the tears dried up.

He walked with me down to the mess hall and pretty much everywhere else we went for the remainder of camp. No moms were called.

Let me cut to the highlights.

The Mess Hall: Kids hate whatever you serve them. They make barf noises, spill their juice, and sit backwards in their chairs. They love to balance chicken tenders on their noses.

The Swimming Pool: These kids live for pool time. They will ask 423 times before lunch, “When are we going swimming?” This is the only time I can rest and leave my kids in the capable hands of teenage lifeguards.

Craft Time: They will make anything, mostly follow the instructions, and have fun doing it. Note to self; giving bottles of food coloring to kids is a dumb idea.

Recreation: Apparently, I am the only human on earth who has never heard of Gaga ball. They will play it for hours.

On The Lake: They are young enough that they all need help buckling a life jacket. They have no idea how to use a paddle. But they do know how to look at you with sad eyes in order to get a canoe ride.

It really doesn’t take much to be a cabin dad. Smile a lot. Make a kid feel special. Just go with the flow, and take your Ibuprofen as needed.

I’m home now. Marion asked me how I liked it. We’re both pretty worn out. And she’s the one who just had knee surgery.

“It was good,” I said.

“It’s like the pain of child birth,” she said. “Maybe we’ll forget about how much it hurts before we volunteer next year.”

My feet hurt already.