I accompanied Melissa and her Summer camp kids on their weekly field trip to a swimming pool last week. It was the next to last day of their camp. This is totally one of those dumb stories about learning lessons from kids.

At one point, a kid, maybe five or six with short white straw hair, had to go the bathroom and was looking for a buddy to accompany him. They’re instructed by the counselors to go in pairs.

In my mind, I’d trust one kid alone more than I’d trust two. One kid just wants to be taken care of, whether he can do that for himself or needs the help of someone more able, it doesn’t matter. One kid is all business, focused on the task at hand, whether it be coloring or plain not listening to anyone old enough to know better.

But two kids kids are a conspiracy, all double dares, escalation, and trouble. Two kids scheme. One kid hits another, and the wronged kid complains loudly, citing inalienable rights to a particular spot on the bus.

Maybe in the same way that one death is a tragedy and several are a statistic, losing one kid is sheer negligence, but a few more, say two or three, that’s just horribly fucking tragic. Who can prevent  something like that? So it’s almost like a free pass. You might note that I’m not a parent or responsible for much of anything.

Anyway, the boy was having trouble finding a bathroom buddy, and I broke off from conversation with Melissa to offer to take him. On the way to bathroom, he looked up at me, and with all the kindness and sincerity he could he muster—which I have to imagine was every last drop in his tiny little heart—said, “Meester Jason, you are berry nice.”

I smiled back at him and told him I thought it was very nice of him to say so. Then he took casually took my hand and looked ahead again in the same motion. I felt like the most important person in Evansville.

The lesson here is that yeah, this kid was too dumb to know I’m not really all that great. It’s also that we have to learn to search for the negative in people. I attribute his earnestness to his youth, that he’s never been hurt or disappointed. He assumed the goodness in me; it took so little for his faith in me and humanity and the camp counselors to be confirmed. I can’t quite imagine I’d feel the same way about someone offering to take me to the bathroom.

He told me that he had trouble getting his swim trunks up and down, and as best I could, I tried to relate, “Well, yeah, wet clothes are hard to get off.” I reminded him to wash his hands, and then we were off to the next adventure.

Jumping in the pool, one kid came up to me and wanted to be held. I obliged. Another kid, sensing that I was a monster or a jungle gym, grabbed onto my free arm. A third kid, seeing what was so fun for two might be pretty spectacular for three, found a spot too. In this way I attracted maybe ten or so kids, more than I could every imagine carrying, all hanging off me or at least hanging off another kid with a better spot. I felt strong. I played at being a monster, and they played at being the conquering Lilliputians. Occasionally I’d fall down to give them a sense of accomplishment, sinking them with me like a selfish ship.

The game lasted as long as I could endure and eventually evolved into my running up and down the shallow end with a kid holding onto each arm. I’d run up, I’d run back, and then I’d take a new two. I felt like I had invented a roller coaster, or a space ship to the moon.

Lesson being, if you get a chance to sit it out or gang tackle your camp director’s brother, I hope you gang tackle your camp director’s brother. Something fun enough for one person is usually fun enough for two—so on and so forth.

When the afternoon came to an end, when I couldn’t tell whether the redness on my shoulders was from the sun or the hands with nails of grabby children, the kids all gathered under the shade of a few trees to wait for the bus. They formed lines grouped by their ages, and I sat down next to the middle group, maybe the six- and seven-year-olds. (I am terrible at telling how old kids are. They’re all five to me.)

They talked to me like they had known me forever, and a red headed boy and girl laid their heads down in my lap. A fifth grade girl gave me a hug and asked when she would get to see me again. (Uh, no.)

Maybe I cheated by showing up and being responsible for nothing other than having fun with the kids. But I think I learned to always measure myself but how children see and respond to me, and for one Thursday afternoon, I was the tallest man on Earth.