Every summer, my kids come home from sleepaway camp with wild tales that sound like they belong in an action movie. They talk about hiking uphill for two miles in pouring rain, flipping over in canoes amidst rapids, and wrestling with tents that leak. They recount the culinary disasters of camp food and the countless mosquito bites they’ve endured. Yet, instead of whining, they share these stories with a sense of pride. They’ve tackled these challenges and emerged victorious, all without Mom and Dad around. They truly love camp.
In just a few weeks, I’ll be picking up my teenage twins after their seventh week away. After years of this routine, I know what to expect: once the initial thrill of a real bed, a private bathroom, and decent food wears off—usually in about three hours—their mood will shift. They’ll start missing their friends, the camaraderie, and counting down the days until next summer. Except this year, there won’t be a next summer. They’ve aged out of camp. While it’s distressing for them, I find it equally hard to accept. It’s not just that my husband and I will miss our seven-week child-free getaway next summer; it feels like the end of an era.
Gone are the days of eagerly awaiting bunk assignments or the excitement of Color War. This summer might also mark the last time we regularly exchange handwritten letters. For six years, I’ve eagerly anticipated checking the mailbox, hoping for a letter instead of bills or catalogs I’ll never order from. Summer brought unexpected notes from my kids. I’ve saved all of them, including one from my 11-year-old daughter who wrote about her homesickness but reassured me, “don’t worry, it’s probably just puberty.” Another was from my son, then 12, scrawled on a post-it. He complained about our lack of handwritten letters and requested I bake something for visiting day. (I’m not a baker, but guess what? I baked that summer!) Most of their letters simply shared snippets of their days—especially hers—filled with joy that they wanted to share with us.
I know I’ll get emails and texts in the future, but they just don’t compare to letters. There’s no evolution of handwriting, no frantic scribbles, or colorful drips that hint at what snacks they enjoyed or whether they had ceramics that day. I will miss the thrill of receiving real mail.
The friendships my kids have made at camp are irreplaceable. My son has said, “They’re more like family.” I, too, have formed bonds with the parents of their camp friends. After dropping the kids off, we spend the day together, enjoying the knowledge that our kids are together and thriving. We plan visiting weekends, share hotel rooms, and dine as a group. Each winter, we gather for a reunion dinner while the kids enjoy their own festivities. I hope we stay in touch, but without camp as our common ground, who knows what will happen?
I often refer to the time my kids spend at camp as my child-free summers. The rest of the year is filled with their energy, but summer offers me a welcome break—albeit temporary—because I know they’ll return. But after this summer, the next time they leave, it will be for college. Camp understands when it’s time to let go, but for me, these are my only kids. Once they’re off to college, they’ll be truly gone.
Sure, kids often come home from school for breaks, and many return after graduation, but our home will no longer be their home. They’ll be visiting, perhaps even staying until they’re ready to carve their own path.
It’s what we all hope for—to raise independent kids who lead fulfilling lives. But preparing your children for their future doesn’t quite prepare you for your own feelings.
I’ll miss them when they’re gone. I’ll miss scouring camp pics of Jello wrestling, rope burns, and talent shows, searching for their smiles, which I remember from their younger years but rarely see now that they’re teenagers. I’ll even miss the smelly duffel bags filled with once-white t-shirts, mismatched socks, half-finished craft projects, and that inevitable clothing labeled with another camper’s name.
As the camp bus pulls away and my kids climb into our car, I know tears will flow. But they can’t be mine. This loss—the end of camp, the joyful silliness, the soaking wet overnights, the endless songs, and all those inside jokes—is their loss. My feelings can’t overshadow that. It will be tough because I understand what they’re losing, even if they don’t yet. The end of camp signifies the end of childhood.
I will miss their childhood—for them and for me.