
For two decades now, we’ve held Cousin Week. But this year’s a different vibe. Six of them have spent the summer at camps. But not as campers.
They’ve been counselors, echoing the words I’ve said each summer during Cousin Week: Hey guys, help me out. Pick up your dirty clothes, change your socks, put on sunscreen, five minutes until lights out. They’ve worked long days, wrangling a cabin full of sixth graders to breakfast on time, lugging water, setting the mood in the heat of the day, and smoothing quarrels. They’ve been last to bed and up with the sun.
Given all this, what will happen with the cousin-week script this year? Will it come back to me or will they use it on each other? Perhaps there will be no script, each one self-governing.
As Cousin Week approaches each year, I count the days with pleasure. It’s a time when we’re immersed in the grandchild-grandparent relationship, when the rest of the world disappears, when we forget (mostly) the daunting transitions that will come in the fall.
And, to be honest, I also count the days with small amounts of trepidation—have we prepared enough food, are the activities too young for the older ones or too old for the young, will we strike the right balance between guidance and generous acceptance?
But this year, I’ve also got a new feeling popping around inside. I’m intrigued. We’ve got a full slate. Once again, they’re all coming. But who exactly? Not little kids lugging favorite blankets. Not rule-following grade school kids, who take the schedule as law. Not even middle school kids who roll on the floor and chew on hoodie strings.
So who’s coming? Emerging young adults, taking a break from long days at camp or on summer jobs. Fully half of them are now accustomed to running things, not being supervised.
I’m ready for the new vibe, to just be together, to hear their thoughts, to watch them interact, to follow their lead through museums, and let them take the wheel.
And I’m doubting we’ll need a lot of script. I’m thinking it will be more of a conversation.
