As the school year drew to a close, a handful of parents gathered around a picnic table at the third-grade end-of-year celebration. We exchanged pleasantries about how quickly the year had flown by before diving into the topic on everyone’s mind: summer plans.
“We’ve signed up for a few soccer camps, a horse camp, and then we’re heading to Disneyland,” one mom shared with enthusiasm.
“Art camp, gymnastics, swim lessons, and a sleepaway Girl Scout camp in August for us!” another chimed in.
“How about you?” a friend inquired, directing the question my way.
“Well, we’re keeping it pretty open this year. We’re going for a 1980s-style summer,” I admitted, feeling a mix of pride and apprehension.
Thanks to a chaotic mix of laziness, disorganization, frugality, and a hint of apathy, I had lined up very few activities for my kids this summer. As May rolled around and I hadn’t joined the mad dash to secure the best summer camps, I thought, why not just take it easy? This laid-back life philosophy isn’t one I typically embrace, so I almost patted myself on the back for adopting a more relaxed attitude. This summer would be different: a laid-back, Type B, super-chill mom who allowed her kids to run barefoot and splash through sprinklers as they pleased. No more labeling sunscreen bottles, no camp T-shirts to buy, and certainly no lessons to rush off to. We would simply unwind and savor every moment.
As a part-time working mom of an almost 9-year-old and a preschooler, I was well-acquainted with a school year filled with childcare. The moment I declared our 1980s summer—no school, no camps—I realized I was trading my precious “me time” for almost continuous family time. What had I gotten myself into?
When June arrived, we kicked off our new routine. Twice a week, I taught classes, bringing my kids along to hang out in the recreation center’s childcare room. The rest of our time was ours to fill as we pleased. We met up with friends, swam frequently, caught every dollar family movie, played with neighbors, and enjoyed lazy mornings. In many ways, it was blissful. Gone were the frantic mornings of getting dressed and racing to eat breakfast before rushing to work; many days, we didn’t roll out of bed until 8:30. The kids would grab their own prepackaged breakfasts and turn on the TV while I lounged in bed with my coffee and a good book. It was almost paradise. Almost.
As the first few weeks of summer flew by, I couldn’t help but compare our routine to my own childhood summers. While there were some similarities, glaring differences stood out, particularly two significant anti-1980s traits: guilt and fear.
When the neighbor kids played outside, I was always present, making sure a speeding car didn’t zoom down our quiet cul-de-sac without a warning shout of “Car!” Gone were the days of kids riding bikes to the local store for candy or simply enjoying the freedom of wandering off to a friend’s house.
When the kids climbed on the playground, I was right there on the bench, consciously resisting the urge to hover, reminding myself that I didn’t want to be a “helicopter mom.” A crack in the pavement could lead to injury; too many sugary treats might lead to hyperactivity or future health issues; and where were my kids, really?
Even when I allowed myself a moment of peace—like sitting on that park bench with my iPhone or retreating to my office for a Netflix binge—I felt that familiar pang of guilt. Shouldn’t I be building forts with them? Shouldn’t we be baking muffins instead of me hiding away? It hardly seemed fair for me to practice yoga while they entertained themselves upstairs with Legos.
It’s a crazy and counterintuitive mix. If I ever managed to quell my fears and let my kids have a little independence, the guilt would quickly take its place. I’m sure my own mother felt relieved when we wandered off to play at a friend’s house instead of worrying about whether she was enriching our lives enough.
To some extent, I too cherish any moments of self-care, delighting in sunbathing without interruptions or sitting quietly to work on an essay. But those moments rarely come without that initial wave of fear and guilt: “You should be spending time with them.” What if they’re missing out on valuable experiences? What if they fall behind their peers?
One of my favorite books, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers, emphasizes that the goal isn’t to eliminate fear but to acknowledge it and push through. I’ve adapted this principle to include guilt as well: Feel the guilt, and do it anyway. “It” being granting myself permission to let go a little.
So, I’m committing to our version of a 1980s summer, even if it lacks the freedom I’d prefer for all of us and involves a fair amount of worry and supervision. Still, I want to preserve that relaxed, free(ish)-range, unstructured vacation that I cherished as a child. We’ll sleep in, waste time, embark on spontaneous outings, hang out with friends, and enjoy getting a little messy. We will create cherished memories together.
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