What Happened to Cousin's Camp?

Today I went to Buffalo for a hot second with my mother for my cousin's graduation party.  My siblings and I are the only ones that don't live there, so we're given some extra points on the coolness scale because people don't see us as much.  It does make it more disappointing when not everyone shows up, though, because we drove the whole two hours to make an appearance for nothing (no hard feelings Jordan, Justin, and Laura...not).  In the family spirit, it made me remember a pretty significant tradition in my childhood that I realized has never been mentioned on this blog.

Sometime in the '90s, my parents decided it would be a good idea to have something called Cousin's Camp.  Cousin's Camp, in their minds, would be a week filled with fun activities and family bonding.  There was one rule- you had to be potty-trained.  Naturally, my aunts and uncles jumped at the chance to get rid of their pesky Polish offspring, and most of them were shipped of to the village to join the festivities.  All in all, there were nine of us- six Fiorillos and three Zaprowskis.

The next year, Cousin's Camp was shortened to three days.  The year after that, it was canceled.

"But why?" you're probably asking.  "It sounds like such a great idea!"  I don't think any of these events is the sole reason for the demise of Cousin's Camp, but they may have had something to do with my parents' hesitance to repeat it (or my relatives' hesitance to send their kids back):

1. The vagueness of the potty-training rule: to be clear, there is a big difference between potty-trained and mostly potty-trained.  One cousin (probably so excited at the thought of spending a week with his ultra cool cousins) wet his pants the first day.  I don't know if he knew of the only rule, but he hid the evidence... in his suitcase.  For six days.  You do the math.
   
2. Make-your-own-sundae: it works in theory, but when practiced in reality it results in one cousin stealing the strawberry syrup, chugging it under the kitchen table, then passing out on the living room floor after the sugar rush wears off.  Also, chugging strawberry syrup is impossible without spilling some (read: a lot) on your chest, which looks an awful lot like blood (especially if it's on the body of a passed out five-year-old).
   
3. Medical liability: my parents had a very specific mindset when it came to childhood (and teen and adult) injuries- suck it up.  In fact, "suck it up" was heard more often than most other phrases in our house growing up.  So, when my cousin Mollie stood at the top of our fireman's pole...
   
   Wait a minute.  I need a digression here.  After my sister's First Communion, my dad used the money to build us the most awesome playhouse of all time.  It was two stories high, with a cargo net leading up to a second floor balcony and "bedroom" that was carpeted.  From the balcony, you could take the fireman's pole down to the first floor, where there were swings, gymnast's rings, a window that folded into a table, and a ladder with a hatch back to the second floor.  It's the only reason we had friends as children.  Anyway, back to the main point.
   
   Mollie was too afraid to go down the pole, even though it was only about twelve feet off the ground.  My dad's advice?  Suck it up.  She tried.  But apparently to Mollie, suck it up means let go of the pole and fall twelve feet to the ground.
   
   "I hurt my arm!" she cried.  My parents' response?  Suck it up.  Oh yeah, and go bowling with everyone the same night.  Her parents were a little bit more concerned when she got back... broken arm.  Whoops.

So somewhere between the urine-soaked clothing and making a little girl use a crippled arm to bowl, Cousin's Camp lost its fervor, especially because I think my aunts and uncles paid to get the kids out of their hair.  Most people don't like to pay for stuff like that.  It's really too bad, too, because we all agree that Cousin's Camp would be awesome now that we're all older and DEFINITELY potty-trained.  Our parents still won't do it though- they claim they can't afford the alcohol.