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mother hen

Every morning, for a week during summer, my friend and I would wake up and ride our bikes from her house to Camp Whitcomb.
“Dana, do you have your helmet on?” I would ask.
“Yea, I do. We can leave,” she replied.
And we would go on our short journey to camp.

Camp Whitcomb was a time to have fun and let loose. Being silly was an every day occasion. Singing funny songs while hiking the woods, whip-cream pie throwing contests, and rock climbing monstrous walls, were just a few of the many activities completed. Meeting brand new people, especially the little campers, and building bonds with them was by far my favorite part.

Through out the day I found myself gravitating to younger kids, whether they needed a band-aid or help with an art project, I was there. At the end of the week every camper got a certificate with a title on it that the counselors thought you achieved during your time at camp. I received mine, and it was to no surprise that the certificate read: The Mother Hen, on top.

Ever since I can remember, I have been referred to as, the mom of the group, or The Mother Hen. When someone is hurt, I am the first to be there to help. If a child is crying I immediately find out what is wrong. Helping children, and adults for that matter is my passion. No matter where I am, helping and caring for people will always be a part of me. I will forever be, The Mother Hen.





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