Each summer, my children return from sleepaway camp with tales that range from the harrowing to the hilarious. They regale me with stories of trudging uphill in pouring rain, navigating canoe rapids that resulted in unceremonious tumbles into icy water, and grappling with tents that leak despite their best efforts. The camp food is often described as inedible, and the mosquito bites far too numerous. Yet, these narratives are not complaints; rather, they are badges of honor. My children emerge from these experiences with a sense of pride and resilience, celebrating their accomplishments without the comfort of parental oversight. They thrive in the camp environment.
In a few weeks, I will once again retrieve my teenage twins after their seven-week escapade. Through the years, I’ve come to understand the cycle: the initial excitement over a real bed, a private bathroom, electronic devices, and edible food will dissipate within hours. Soon, they will yearn for the camaraderie fostered among their peers and start counting down the days until next summer. However, this year presents a poignant twist; my children have aged out of camp. While they grapple with this transition, I find myself equally affected. It’s not just that my spouse and I will lose seven weeks of child-free time next summer; it symbolizes an end of an era.
The thrill of bunk assignments and the anticipation of Color War will no longer be part of our summers. This season will likely mark the last opportunity for us to engage in the timeless ritual of exchanging handwritten letters. For the past six summers, I have eagerly awaited the mail, hoping to find notes from my children amid the usual bills and advertisements. These letters encapsulated their experiences, such as my daughter’s amusing admission of homesickness, humorously attributing it to “puberty,” or my son’s post-it note request for more letters and baked goods for visiting day—something outside my usual routine. These letters have become cherished keepsakes, showcasing their daily adventures and joyous moments shared with us.
In the future, I will receive emails and texts, but they lack the charm of handwritten correspondence. There is no evolution of their handwriting, no frantic scribbles to decipher, and no colorful drops hinting at the snacks or activities they enjoyed that day. The tactile nature of receiving real mail is something I will deeply miss.
My children’s camp friendships hold a cherished place in their lives. My son once described them as “more like family.” I too have developed connections with fellow camp parents, sharing in the joy of knowing our kids are enjoying their summer. We plan visiting weekends, stay in the same accommodations, and even reunite during winter gatherings, forging bonds that extend beyond our children. I hope these friendships endure, but without the glue of camp to hold us together, I worry about potential drift.
I often refer to the period when my children are at camp as my child-free summers. The rest of the year is filled with their presence, but summer offers a temporary reprieve. However, this year signifies a shift; the next time they leave home, it will be for college. As a parent, I recognize that it is time to let go. Camps typically welcome new children at age fifteen, perpetuating the cycle, but for me, my twins are my only children. Once they depart for college, they will not return in the same way.
While many young adults return home after graduation, our home will no longer be their primary residence. They will visit, but the family dynamics will inevitably change. Preparing children for independence is a fundamental aspect of parenting, but emotionally preparing oneself is another challenge entirely.
I will miss the vibrant camp photos capturing moments of joy—Jello wrestling, talent shows, and their carefree smiles. I will even miss the fragrant, worn bags they return with, filled with once-white shirts, mismatched socks, and unfinished crafts, often bearing the names of other campers.
When the camp bus departs, and I drive away with my children, I know emotions will surface, but my tears are not the focus. This loss—the end of camp, the closure of carefree childhood adventures, and cherished traditions—is theirs to bear. It is a bittersweet farewell, marking the end of their childhood and a significant chapter in my life as well.
In conclusion, while we embrace the future, I cannot help but reflect on what we leave behind. The end of camp signifies not just a transition for my children, but also a poignant moment for me.
For further insights on fertility and family planning, consider exploring related topics in our other blog posts, such as this one on home insemination. For those navigating the world of artificial insemination, Make a Mom is an authoritative source. Additionally, Science Daily offers excellent resources on pregnancy and fertility.