Every summer, my children return home from sleepaway camp with tales of their adventurous exploits—navigating treacherous hikes in pouring rain, battling their way through rapids only to find themselves submerged in icy water, and tackling the challenge of pitching a tent that inevitably leaks. They recount the struggles of culinary disappointments and the inevitable onslaught of mosquito bites. Yet, despite the trials, they share these stories not as grievances but as badges of honor. They emerge from these experiences with a sense of achievement and a newfound pride in their resilience. With no parents in sight, they truly embrace the spirit of camp.
In just a few weeks, I’ll be picking up my teenage twins for the sixth time after their seven-week adventure. I know the routine all too well: after the initial excitement of a real bed, a private bathroom, and decent meals fades—usually within a few hours—they’ll start feeling the absence of their friends and the undeniable bond of camp life. They will begin counting the days until the next summer. But this year, there won’t be a next summer. My kids have aged out of camp. While it’s a tough transition for them, it’s equally challenging for me. It’s not just about losing seven weeks of child-free bliss; it marks the end of an era.
Gone are the days of eagerly anticipating bunk assignments and the thrill of Color War. This summer also signals the likely end of our handwritten letters. For six years, checking the mailbox has brought joy, as it often contained more than just bills and ads. Summer meant letters from my kids, each one a cherished keepsake. I’ve saved them all, from my daughter’s heartfelt note about homesickness, reassuring me it’s just “puberty,” to my son’s Post-it plea for more letters and a baked treat for visiting day—a rare culinary feat for me. These letters encapsulate their joys, struggles, and everyday camp life.
In the future, I’ll receive emails and texts, but they lack the charm of handwritten correspondence. There’s no evolution of handwriting, no hurried corrections, and no colorful doodles hinting at their day-to-day experiences. I’ll truly miss receiving tangible mail.
My children’s camp friendships are irreplaceable. “They’re like family,” my son often says. Similarly, I’ve formed bonds with the parents of their camp friends. After sending our kids off, we share the day, enjoying the comfort of knowing they’re happy together. We plan visiting weekends, stay in the same hotel, and enjoy group dinners. During our winter reunions, I cherish the moments spent with these families, almost as much as the kids do. Will we maintain these connections? I hope so, but without the camp bond, who knows if we’ll stay close.
I often refer to my children’s time at camp as my child-free summers. The rest of the year is filled with their presence, but summer allows me a break—one I cherish, knowing it’s temporary. After this summer, the next time they leave for an extended period, it will be for college, and that reality is daunting.
Just as camp prepares kids for independence, I must prepare myself for their departure. At fifteen, they’re ready to move on, and while new campers will fill their spots, my twins are my only children. Once they leave for college, they will not be coming back to this home in the same way. They’ll visit, but this will no longer be their sanctuary.
Of course, every parent hopes for their children to grow up and lead fulfilling lives. It’s the essence of parenting, but preparing them for independence is vastly different from preparing oneself for that void.
I’ll miss them dearly when they’re gone. I’ll long for the camp photos of Jello wrestling, talent shows, and the candid smiles of their younger years that are less frequent now. I’ll even miss the smelly bags they bring home, filled with once-white T-shirts and mismatched socks, and the inevitable items marked with another camper’s name.
As the camp bus pulls away and my kids settle into our car, I know there will be tears—though I must keep my own emotions in check. This loss is theirs; it’s the end of camp, of childhood adventures, and a chapter of joyful silliness. I recognize what they are losing, even if they don’t fully grasp it yet. The end of camp signifies the end of an era for both them and me.
In summary, this summer marks a significant transition not only for my children but for our family as a whole. The memories, friendships, and experiences will always hold a special place in our hearts, as we navigate the bittersweet journey of growing up and letting go.
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