As the school year drew to a close, several parents congregated around a picnic table during the third-grade end-of-year celebration. Casual conversations about how swiftly the year passed soon shifted to our summer plans.
“We’re enrolling our kids in soccer and horse camps, and we’re planning a trip to Disneyland,” one mother revealed.
“Art camp, gymnastics, swim lessons, and then a sleepaway Girl Scout camp in August for us,” another parent added.
“What about you?” a fellow parent inquired.
“Actually, we’re keeping things unstructured this year. We’re having a 1980s summer,” I admitted, feeling a mix of pride and trepidation.
My decision was a product of a peculiar cocktail of lethargy, disorganization, frugality, and indifference, leading to minimal activity planning for my kids. As May approached and I hadn’t felt the need to engage in the frantic rush to reserve spots in summer camps or schedule extracurricular lessons, I decided to embrace a more spontaneous approach. This new philosophy was uncharacteristic for me, so I almost felt a sense of accomplishment for adopting such a relaxed attitude. I envisioned myself as a zen-like, Type B, easygoing mom, allowing my kids to run barefoot and play in the sprinklers whenever they wished. This summer would be free from sunscreen bottle labels, camp T-shirts, or the stress of arriving late to scheduled events. We’d lounge around and relish every moment.
As a part-time working mother of a nearly 9-year-old and a preschooler, I was accustomed to a school year filled with various childcare arrangements. However, once I declared the 1980s summer—sans school and camps—I realized that I was transitioning from a reasonable amount of “me time” to nearly constant family interaction. What had I gotten myself into?
Once June arrived, our new routine began. Twice a week, I taught classes, bringing my children along to the recreation center’s childcare room. The remainder of our time was ours to fill. We visited friends, swam frequently, attended every $1 family movie showing, played with neighbors, and enjoyed leisurely mornings. In many respects, it was delightful. There was rarely a rush to get dressed or eat breakfast before heading to work, and often, we wouldn’t rise until 8:30 AM. The kids would dash downstairs for their pre-packaged breakfasts and turn on the television (Mother of the Year award goes to me!), while I lounged in bed with my coffee and a novel. It felt almost idyllic.
As we meandered through the initial weeks of summer vacation, I couldn’t help but compare our weekly routine to the June days of my own childhood. While there were some resemblances, significant differences stood out. Most notably, my role as a mother introduced two distinct elements that contrasted sharply with the carefree 1980s: guilt and anxiety.
When the neighborhood kids played in the calm cul-de-sac, I was never inside the house reading a book or preparing dinner. My well-worn Adirondack chair was always in the driveway, ensuring that no speeding car could race down the street without my warning shout of “Car!” There would be no carefree bike rides to the nearby store for candy or simply to indulge in the joy of independence. Nor would there be hours where my children could wander off to friends’ homes without my supervision.
As the kids played on the swings, I was right there on the bench, forcing myself to resist the urge to hover, repeating the self-deprecating mantra “helicopter mom” in my head. A crack in the pavement could lead to a head injury, too many sugary treats could result in hyperactivity or other health issues, and unsupervised play could mean danger.
Even when I attempted to disengage—whether it was checking my phone on that park bench or retreating to my office for a Netflix binge—I felt that familiar wave of guilt wash over me. Shouldn’t I be constructing a fort out of couch cushions with them? Shouldn’t we be baking muffins instead of me hiding out in my room scrolling through social media? It didn’t seem fair for me to be downstairs doing yoga while they played upstairs with Legos—we should be visiting a museum or engaging in something more enriching.
This combination of emotions was quite absurd and counterproductive. If I ever managed to overcome my anxiety and allow my kids a bit more freedom, the guilt of indulging in personal time quickly took its place. I’m sure my own mother felt relief whenever we ventured off to a friend’s house, rather than worrying about whether she was adequately enriching our lives.
To some extent, I too relish any moments of self-care, savoring the pleasure of sunbathing undisturbed or enjoying a quiet room to work on my writing. But such moments rarely occur without the initial wave of guilt: You should be spending time with your children. What if they’re engaging in risky behavior? Or what if they’re missing out by not participating in language immersion camps or tennis lessons? What if they fall behind their peers?
One of my favorite self-help books, authored by the late Susan Jeffers, is titled Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. She emphasizes that the goal is not to eliminate fear entirely but to acknowledge it and push through. I’ve adapted this philosophy to include guilt: acknowledge the guilt and proceed anyway. “It” being the act of letting go a little.
Thus, I am determined to embrace our interpretation of a 1980s summer, even with less freedom (for all of us) than I would ideally prefer, accompanied by a bit more worry and oversight, while still maintaining the relaxed, free-range, unstructured vacation I cherished as a child. We will sleep in, waste time, embark on spontaneous outings, connect with friends, and embrace getting messy. We will create lasting memories together.
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In summary, embracing an unstructured summer can be a rewarding experience for both parents and children, despite the accompanying guilt and anxiety. By allowing for spontaneity and freedom, we create opportunities for connection and lasting memories.
Keyphrase: 1980s summer parenting
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