“Have you signed the kids up for any summer camps?” my friend asked me recently.
“Actually, I haven’t enrolled them in anything,” I replied, feeling the weight of my choice pressing down on me like a heavy blanket.
Her expression mirrored shock. “Why? What made you decide that?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief as if she were trying to pull me back to reality. She knows I work from home and rely on those hours when the kids are engaged elsewhere to gather my thoughts and communicate effectively with colleagues.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I admitted, dismissing the rising wave of uncertainty, “but I just have this instinct that we need this.”
This instinct is about allowing my kids to simply go outside and play while I work, free from a packed schedule of camps, devoid of screens, and without every moment meticulously planned.
This means they might get bored enough to unleash their creativity, which has been buried under layers of screen time. It means we’ll be more spontaneous with our summer days, like deciding last minute to pack a cooler for a picnic in an open field. It means I’ll let them mess up the house with blanket forts and arts and crafts, buying a stack of construction paper and letting their imaginations run wild.
This is about improvising and hoping that by summer’s end, I’ll understand my kids a bit more than I do now. Honestly, this feels closer to the kind of summer I experienced as a child.
Growing up in the ’90s, I attended just one week of camp each summer. The rest of the time, I navigated my own adventures. I never went to the zoo since it was too far away, and there were no camps for learning to ride a bike—I just fell and scraped my knees until I got the hang of it. My mom didn’t stress over Pinterest boards filled with summer activities; she worked or pursued her own interests, whether that was gardening, reading, or preparing lunch for me. Boredom was never a concern for her, and when I complained about it, I knew better than to expect her to solve it for me.
My summers were filled with racing caterpillars, cloud-watching, and biking down dirt hills. I attempted to befriend yard chipmunks with dog food, whistled with blades of grass, and created imaginary worlds in my backyard using whatever I could find. The shed transformed into a troll’s cave, the tree thicket became my castle, and a small hill marked the boundary of fairy land. My mom was blissfully unaware of what I was up to most of the time.
While I recognize that today’s world is different, I want to give my children a taste of the freedom I had. I want them to feel a twinge of anxiety at saying, “I’m bored,” just as I did. I want them to spend hours outdoors, inventing their own games and learning to enjoy their own thoughts.
Most days during the school year, we’re shuttling between activities, and right now, I want to press pause—even if it makes me uneasy. I measured them against the wall today, their bodies stretching taller, my daughter grinning with pride at her growth. I felt a wave of nostalgia and sadness for how quickly they’re growing up.
I may be taking a gamble with this decision, and I know we’ll have our fair share of annoyances. I’ll probably end up working late to make up for the time I spend encouraging my kids to embrace the beauty of boredom (and to stop bickering). But I’m determined to follow through.
In the end, I hope this summer brings us closer together, allowing us to create lasting memories.
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Summary: This summer, I’ve decided against a schedule, opting instead for freedom and creativity for my kids. I want them to experience the joys of boredom and spontaneous adventures, similar to how I spent my own childhood. Embracing this approach may lead to moments of chaos, but I believe it will strengthen our family bond and encourage my children to explore their imaginations.