815. Camp McEnrichment

The Husband lives for sports.  I live for art and theater.  Ours is a marriage based on mutual respect, lust, and completely different interests.  Oh, yeah, and mint-chip ice-cream. 


But back to the sports thing.  During the school year, he signed up Tall and Short for soccer and basketball at our community center.  Then he introduced football.  He also likes to take the boys biking and hiking.  (Anything where you have to buy special shoes to do it is fair game.)  Then summer rolled around, and The Husband started perusing the brochures for local sports camps. 

“What about the first week of August for lacrosse?  Would the boys like to learn lacrosse?” he asked me.  “Oh, and I think we have enough money for one other week of something.  Hmm, how about volleyball starting on June 25th?”     

I shook my head no.  “Sweetie, the school year is yours.  Summer is … mine.” 

His grin turned to a frown, because he knew what that meant:  ART. 

Two summers ago, I became obsessed with taking the boys to visit every museum within an hour’s drive of our house.  We live near some of the best museums in the world so it was easy to do.  It was a hot summer, so the boys and I spent almost every waking moment hopping in the car or on the subway, going to air-conditioned museums.  I loved every second of it.

The Husband remembers that summer, because every evening we would show him the museum catalog and postcards we bought. 

Tall would say, “Look, Pop, look!  We saw another Picasso, this one was from his Blue Period.  I prefer the paintings of the Fauve artists though.”   




“Are you kidding?  When you could look at the masterpieces Van Gogh produced?” Short would interrupt.  “Or Paul Klee?  What about him?” 

The Husband looked me right in the eye.  “Are you planning a repeat of The Summer of The Museum?” he inquired with trepidation. 

“No no no no no no!  Don’t be silly!  I don’t have to take the kids back to those same museums again, because they already have all those art images locked in their brains!”  Here I pointed to my own brain, as if it was holding the back-up art files.  “I have something better planned:  classes.”

“Ugh, how much is that going to cost?”

“Sweetie, no more than your two weeks of sports.  Chill.  I’ll pay for it.  And they will learn a lot.” 

Apparently, I’d said the magic words (“I’ll pay for it”) because he agreed.  Before he had a chance to change his mind, I had signed up Tall for a week of “Art Around the World” and a week of “Comic Book Drawing.”   Short was enrolled in a week of “Bug Crazy!” and a week of “Ceramics for First-Graders.”   

On the final day of “Comic Book Drawing,” Tall was ecstatic. 

“Now I know how to make my own comics,” he said proudly over dinner. 

The Husband smiled.  “That’s great, Tall!  I'm proud of you.  After we finish our mint-chip ice-cream, will you show me what you made?” 

“Sure!  And you know the really neat thing?  During the school year, we only have time for a one-hour art class once per week.  So, since my comic class was two hours a day for five day which equals 10 hours, that means I learned as much in art camp as I would have in—”

“Five months!” blurted out Short. 

“A year!” I yelled. 

“Three weeks?” offered The Husband, whose day job is “Cost Analyst.”

Tall rolled his eyes.  “No, if you would’ve let me finish, what I was going to say is:  11 months.” 

I think next summer we might look into Math Camp. 

MOV