Talent Show?

It's Talent Show Day.
Always a good time. Well, usually. Much more so when at least three of the children elect for their demonstration of talent to leap spastically around the stage in full uni-tutus to the strains of "Let It Go."
When that happens, the performance is usually very passionate. And all the other children inevitably start to sing along.
Today did not look like a good day for a Talent Show, however.
I know this to be the case when Emily- a wee towheaded camper we've had since she was three years old- creeps silently up to the registration desk. She places her chubby tan dimpled hands on the edge of the table and scratches lightly, nervously on the surface.
No eye contact.
"Yes, Emily?"
Tear-filled hazel eyes lift to mine. "Do I have to do a talent today? In the show? I really really really don't want to."
I have already made this quite clear. In the 45 minute lecture on Talent Show protocol we conduct every Talent Show Eve. "You absolutely do not have to participate in the Talent Show if you do not want to. You can do your part by being an excellent audience member."
A lone tear rolls down a golden cheek. A tear of relief. Emily sighs a shaky sigh and walks back to her table. Still silently, but with a bit more spring to her step.
I finish checking the children in and am preparing for warm-ups when I hear a high-pitched whoop from somewhere behind me. I turn to quell the ruckus before it escalates into an off-putting din, only to find myself face to face- well, face to knee cap- with this selfsame Emily. Who is now beaming and so excited she's practically spitting. She glows up at me. "Miss Audra! Miss Audra! I'm gonna do ballet for the Talent Show!" She sprints away. OK.
So I have no idea what was in those crayons they were using for morning coloring time, but it worked. Or it's hormones. Do five year olds have those?
Here we are. Talent Show begins. Mr. Paul places one of his rubber magic dots at center on the gymnasium floor. I explain the rules- alternating between a manly baritone announcer voice and my very best soothing, smoky female receptionist impression. The children are always dumbstruck when I do this. I think they are confused about where the sounds are coming from, being accustomed to (what I've been told are) the customary Miss Audra grunts and mutters. Mr. Paul and I assume our usual spots for Talent Show at the back of the audience. He at the boom box in case anyone decides they need "Nessun Dorma" karaoke tracks, and myself on the opposite side of the room. This gives the illusion of responsible adult supervision but it's really mostly because we like to have direct eye line to each other should something particularly choice take place and we need to exchange a significant look. Or subtly indicate with violent neck jerks that the other one should take a photograph or what is going on.
First to take the stage (after raising a quiet hand- quiet hands get called on first, you know) is Hattie. Hattie is six years old and has a hazel colored pixie cut. She might weigh fourteen pounds and has not said a word since Monday. Hattie would make a fabulous eccentric great aunt. I bet she weaves socks on a private little girl loom in her bedroom. Anyway. I look her over to see if she's brought any of the usual items- a hula hoop, some dance shoes, a Ziploc bag of vacation photographs. Nope. She is clutching in her claws a crisp, handled paper bag from Starbucks.
Delicious. If Hattie wants to give me beignet as her talent, I will applaud enthusiastically and encourage the rest of the pack to follow suit.
Nope. Hattie approaches the dot. Steps one tiny sneaker onto it with a soft pat sound. Then the next. She announces her name at a volume that would probably carry well at any ant high school assembly and then folds herself into a pile onto the floor. I sit next to her. Many times Mr. Paul or myself are called upon to assist the campers with their talents. Like when they bring DRUMS and cannot carry their DRUMS alone. DRUMS, you should know, with cymbals Scotch-taped to the sides. It takes a lot of Scotch tape to affix a cymbal at a ninety degree angle to the side of snare drum, just so you know. This kid's parents will need to go to the store. Back to Hattie.
I crouch beside her. "What have you brought for us today, Hattie?" She looks shyly up at me. I peep into the bag. Oh. I see. I stand up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, for her talent today, Hattie will be.............gardening."
Hattie proceeds to remove from her disappointingly filled Starbucks bag: a handmade/handpainted flower pot, a gallon Ziploc baggie of mulch, a small Ziploc baggie of water, a small Ziploc baggie of what appear to be pills, and a packet of zinnia seeds.
Hattie and I pot zinnias.
We make an enormous mess. I learn the pills are plant vitamins and after this demonstration- I know this plant is on a LOT of drugs. I also learn that, as cabaret acts go, potting zinnias isn't a surefire way to rev up your audience, per se.
Another child takes the dot.
This child is as tall as I am and again- is six. She announces her name as she yanks tight a black bathrobe sash around her waist. "Today-" she begins loudly and confidently, "today- I'm going to be showing you some martial arts I learned at my preschool."
Dear heavens.
Somewhere in the middle of toddler karate, I feel a tug at my sleeve. I glance down. One of the children - we'll call her Raia- is staring at me with her tongue out.
"Yes?"
"My tooth." I peer into her mouth and notice that said tooth is barely holding on.
"I see your tooth." She forces the loose tooth backwards and forwards a few times with her tongue to demonstrate. I watch. This is, at least, more entertaining than gardening.
"How long do you think til my tooth falls out, Miss Audra?"
I consider. I could say, "Well, I can yank that out right here in under two seconds if you're really committed."
I could say, "Well, you can go home and ask your parents if they know anything about teeth, strings, and doorknobs."
Both of these options will almost surely lead to further discussion, however, and we are in the middle of the Talent Show. I whisper, "From the way that looks, I bet it falls out by tomorrow." Boring answer.
Raia returns to her seat on top of her sister.
There's another Talent Show tomorrow. I am hopeful for more gems. We've got some good potential in camp this week. Acting has happened which has nearly given me chills and we're only on Day 3. We've also got "Stall Queen," as she has been lovingly dubbed by Mr. Paul. Stall Queen is six years old as well, and is known by this name not because of her thick curling mane of brunette hair- which might be compared to that of a pony, but because of her passionate devotion to using the bathroom.
Stall Queen requests no fewer than nine bathroom trips throughout our six hour day. She additionally requests to go along each time another camper makes a bathroom request of their own. We are almost certain Stall Queen does not really have to use the bathroom all of these times. We think she just likes to ask for things. Today, after she downs her liter of lavender Gatorade, she wipes stray droplets from her chin with the back of her fist and springs to her feet immediately, crushing underfoot and permanently grinding into the brightly colored carpet sixteen pieces of Captain's Booty as she does so.
"I have to go to the bathroom!" She shrills.
This is already the seventh time today. Mr. Paul takes the opportunity to get the attention of the entire camp and lecture briefly through mouthfuls of Cheez-Its on anatomy and the streaming and absorption properties of one's kidneys, bloodstream, and ureter, with a special highlight on the digestive tract.
Stall Queen is put off momentarily. But not for long. She will successfully visit the restroom twice more before day's end. But strangely, and notably- not after she sucks down her gluten-free fruit punch Freezie-Pop in one fell swallow.
We know what you're up to, Stall Queen.
At camp day's close, Mr. Paul is leading the children through a brief round of "Everyone Put Your Head Down On The Table And Close Your Eyes And I'll Tap One Person To Come Around And Tap Some Of You On The Shoulder And Then You'll All Open Your Eyes And Try To Guess Who The Tapper Was," or "7-Up?" I think that may be a game called "7-Up." I remember playing something like that in grade school, but cannot remember specific rules and regulations.
This game goes over well. The kids are quiet, and listening as hard as they can to try and figure out who is gliding around in the dark tapping them on the shoulder. Round two: Daniel is designated as tapper by Mr. Paul. Daniel circles the room silently, tapping three people's shoulders- including the left shoulder of his adored big sister, Fia, and returns just as silently to his chair.
"OK, everyone! Eyes open! If you got tapped on the shoulder this time, stand up. You get one guess."
A couple of children guess. They are incorrect. Stall Queen raises her hand and asks to use the restroom. Denied. Another child guesses. Incorrectly. Final child to guess is five year old Lucy. Lucy twirls a blond corkscrew ringlet around a tiny finger, giggles, and says, "Daniel?"
Mr. Paul is impressed. "That's right, Lucy!" Very well done! How did you know it was Daniel?"
Lucy smiles and twirls another piece of hair. "Oh," she says shyly, "I just know the feel of his hands."