As the school year drew to a close, several parents congregated at a picnic table during my child’s third-grade end-of-year celebration. We exchanged pleasantries about how swiftly the year had passed, and soon our conversation turned to summer vacation plans.
“We have some soccer camps, horse riding, and a trip to Disneyland lined up,” one mother announced.
“We’re signed up for art camp, gymnastics, and swim lessons, plus a sleepaway Girl Scout camp in August,” another parent added enthusiastically.
“What about your family?” an acquaintance inquired.
“Well, we’re keeping it pretty low-key this year. We’re planning a 1980s summer,” I replied, feeling a mix of pride and apprehension.
My decision stemmed from a fusion of laziness, disorganization, frugality, and a hint of indifference. As May rolled around without my joining the rush to secure summer camps or lessons, I decided we would simply “go with the flow.” This approach to life is not my usual style, so I felt a bit proud of my newfound laid-back attitude. I envisioned myself as a Zen-like, Type B mother who allowed her kids to roam barefoot and splash in sprinklers at will. This summer would be devoid of sunscreen bottles marked with Sharpies, oversized camp T-shirts, and the stress of being late for lessons. We’d relax and savor every moment.
As a part-time working mother of an almost 9-year-old and a preschooler, I typically enjoyed a school year filled with childcare. Acknowledging my 1980s summer proclamation—no school, no camps—made me realize I was trading my precious “me time” for almost constant family interaction. What had I agreed to?
When June arrived, we began adjusting to our new routine. Twice a week, I taught classes, bringing my kids along to occupy themselves in the recreation center’s childcare area. The rest of our time was unstructured. We socialized with friends, swam frequently, attended $1 family movies, played with neighbors, and enjoyed lazy mornings. In many respects, it was blissful. Gone were the frantic mornings of dressing and breakfasting in time for work; on some days, we didn’t get out of bed until 8:30. The children would head downstairs for their pre-packaged breakfasts and turn on the television (Mother of the Year, right?), while I savored my coffee and read novels in bed. It was almost idyllic. Sometimes.
As the initial weeks of summer vacation unfolded, I found myself comparing our weekly routine to my own childhood summers. While there were similarities, several significant differences stood out. Most notably, my experience as a mother included two prominent anti-1980s elements: guilt and anxiety.
When the neighborhood kids played outside, I was never ensconced in the house preparing dinner or engrossed in a book. My trusty Adirondack chair was stationed in the driveway, ensuring that a speeding car wouldn’t race through without a warning shout of “Car!” There were no carefree bike rides to the local grocery store for candy or the simple joy of independent exploration, nor would there be hours spent away, visiting friends.
While the kids climbed at the playground, I found myself sitting on a bench, consciously resisting the urge to hover by reciting “helicopter mom” in my mind. A crack in the pavement might lead to injury, excessive ICEEs could trigger hyperactivity, and unknown locations raised alarms about potential dangers.
And even when I managed to carve out a moment for myself—whether checking my phone on that park bench or retreating to my office for a Netflix binge—I was met with a familiar wave of guilt. Shouldn’t I be constructing a fort out of cushions with them? Shouldn’t we be baking muffins instead of me hiding away scrolling through social media? It hardly seemed fair for me to practice yoga downstairs while they played with Legos upstairs—we ought to be visiting a museum or engaging in some enriching activity.
What a contradictory and counterproductive mix this was. If I ever overcame my anxiety and allowed my children a bit more freedom, the guilt of indulging in solitude would swiftly return. I suspect my own mother felt a sense of relief whenever my siblings and I wandered off to play at friends’ houses, rather than fretting about whether she was adequately enriching our lives.
To a degree, I too relish moments of self-care, finding joy in sunbathing undisturbed or enjoying quiet time to work on writing. But this rarely occurs without the initial surge of guilt: Shouldn’t I be spending time with them? What if something dangerous happens? Or I worry, what if they miss out on experiences like Spanish immersion camp or tennis lessons? What if they fall behind their peers?
One of my favorite authors, Susan Jeffers, wrote a book titled Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. She suggests that the goal is not to eliminate fear entirely, but to acknowledge it and proceed regardless. I have adapted this philosophy to include guilt as well: Feel the guilt and do it anyway. “It” being the act of loosening the reins a bit.
Therefore, I will embrace our version of a 1980s summer, albeit with less independence for all of us than I would prefer, and a bit more supervision and worry. Yet I will still aim to preserve the relaxed, free-spirited, unstructured vacation I cherished as a child. We’ll sleep in, waste time, embark on spontaneous outings, visit friends, and get messy. We will create lasting memories.
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Summary
The author reflects on the decision to embrace a 1980s-style summer for her children, focusing on unstructured time and relaxation. However, she grapples with feelings of guilt and anxiety about parenting, contrasting her own childhood experiences with modern expectations. Ultimately, she seeks to find a balance that allows for carefree summer memories while navigating the challenges of motherhood.