Page 205 of Camp Bliss
“We’ll hear Pen and Livy cheer all the way from Georgetown when they see this,” she mutters to her husband who grunts in agreement.
“Eeeee, but I’m scared, Ms. G!” Naomi howls.
Greta looks over her shoulder, meeting Naomi’s gaze. “Yes, sometimes wehave to dothings that are scary, and sometimes we justwant to dothings that might scare us a little. But I want you to understand two things, Naomi.” Greta holds up two fingers.
“What?” Naomi asks, wincing.
“One, we can do scary things. Two, you don’t have to dothisscary thing. You should only do it if youwantto do it. And I’ll promise you, there area lotof scary things in life that are worth doing.”
Naomi laughs a nervous laugh that has her parents tittering under their breath. “Like what?”
Greta’s gaze shifts down to mine before moving back to the little girl’s. “Like trusting other people to take care of you. Or doing a backflip on a trampoline. Or riding a bike without training wheels.”
Even from here, I think I see Naomi gulp. “My bike still has training wheels.” Then she perks up. “But I’ve done a front flip on a trampoline. We have one at our big house. It’s Maisy’s.” She points down at her cousin who is definitely getting tired of waiting for the birthday girl to take the plunge.
“Just go, already!” Maisy calls.
Instead of scolding, Naomi’s dad pulls Maisy against him in a one-arm hug before he signs something. The eight-year-old rolls her eyes. “Fine, Uncle T.” Then she shouts up at Naomi. “Take your time, Na-Na.
“I don’t have to do it?” Naomi asks Greta.
“Nope.”
The child blinks. “What are some scary things I have to do?”
Greta wrinkles her nose. “How do you feel about getting shots when you go to the doctor’s?”
Naomi’s eyes bug. “Does riding the zipline hurt like a shot?”
We all laugh, but Greta recovers quickly. “No! It feels like flying. All you’ll feel is a tickle in your tummy.”
Naomi giggles. “I like when Mommy and Daddy tickle my tummy—except one time I peed my pants and—”
“Naomi—” Her mother calls, turning a shade of dark pink. Her dad groans before uttering a gruff laugh.
When Greta is composed enough, she puts it to the child. “What’ll it be, Naomi. Go or no go?”
Naomi presses her lips together and inhales, her eyes going wide for maximum dramatic effect. “Go!” she shouts.
“Okay. Lean forward. Here goes!” Greta pitches forward on the platform and, on the count of three, pushes them off. At first, my wife doesn’t use the brake at all, and Naomi’s startled squeal of delight echoes over the treetops. But then, just when the pulley would start to pick up real speed, Greta squeezes the hand brake, and slows their descent until they glide smoothly to the bottom where Everett, another of our camp counselors, approaches and helps Naomi unclip.
“Mommy! Daddy! I did it!”
“You sure did, baby!” All of the kids rush to that end of the clearing, cheering and clapping for the birthday girl. Her parents move more slowly, but by all accounts, as fast as either one of them can.
I jog over and help my woman unclip and get both feet on terra firma.
I use the loop in her harness to tug her to me. “You said you’d ride the brake the whole time.”
Greta gives me a contrite wince. “I got a little carried away?”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I breathe a low growl that I hope Everett isn’t close enough to hear.
She bites her bottom lip, but mischief lights her eyes. “But it felt good.” She bounces on the balls of her feet. “It gave me energy.”
And this? This is good news for our after-hours activities.
Yes, we’ve kept that up, trying to end each day with an activity just for the two of us. Usually, she’s the one who plans what we’re going to do, but not always. Sometimes I’m the one deciding that we’re going to go skinny dipping in the pond or climbing onto the roof of the fifth-wheel to lay on our backs together and look at the stars.
