Every summer, my children return from Sleepaway Camp brimming with wild stories: tales of trudging two miles uphill through torrential rain, canoeing through raging rapids and capsizing into icy waters. They share their struggles with tent pitching, only to discover it leaks, the unappetizing camp meals, and the inevitable 89 mosquito bites. Yet, they recount these experiences not as grievances but as victories. They emerge from these challenges feeling triumphant and proud. Without Mom and Dad hovering nearby, they truly embrace the essence of camp.
In just a few weeks, I will pick up my teenage twins for the last time after seven weeks at camp. After years of this routine, I know how it goes: the initial excitement of a real bed, a private bathroom, electronics, and tasty food lasts roughly three hours. Then comes the familiar wave of unhappiness. They’ll long for their friends, the camaraderie, and soon start counting down the days until next summer. But this year, there won’t be a next summer. My twins have outgrown camp. While it’s disheartening for them, it’s equally poignant for me. It’s not just that my husband and I won’t have seven weeks of child-free time to reconnect; it signifies the end of an era.
Gone are the days of eagerly awaiting bunk assignments or the thrill of Color War. This summer may also mark the last time we indulge in the joy of handwritten letters. For six years, I’ve looked forward to checking the mail, hoping to find more than just bills and solicitations. Each letter from my kids felt like a treasure. I’ve kept them all, including one from my then 11-year-old daughter who confessed she was homesick but reassured me it was probably just puberty. Another from my son, at 12, scribbled on a post-it, complained about our lack of handwritten correspondence and requested I bake something for visiting day. (I don’t bake. Really! But that summer, I did.) Most of the letters captured the simple joys of their days—mostly her days, since not much fits on a post-it—just so they could share their happiness with me.
Emails and texts will replace those heartfelt letters in the future, but they lack the charm of handwritten notes—the evolution of their handwriting, the frantic cross-outs, and the colorful drips revealing hints of their snacks or ceramics classes. I’ll miss receiving tangible mail.
The friendships my children have forged at camp hold immense value. “They’re like family,” my son once told me. I too have formed connections with the parents of their camp friends. After dropping the kids off, we often spend the day together, relishing the knowledge that our children are off creating memories. We plan visiting weekends together, share hotel stays, and enjoy group dinners. At the annual Winter Camp reunion, we catch up while the kids hang out, reliving our own joyful memories. Will we remain in touch? I hope so, but without the glue of camp family ties, it’s uncertain.
I fondly refer to the time my kids spend at camp as my child-free summers. The rest of the year is bustling with their presence, but during summer, I relish the temporary freedom, knowing they will return. After this summer, however, the next time they leave, it will mark a different kind of farewell. College is looming.
Just like camp knows when to let go, I need to prepare myself to let my children spread their wings. At 15, most camps say it’s time to move on. New kids will fill their spots, and life will go on. But for me, these two remarkable, sometimes exasperating, individuals are my only children. Once they head to college, they won’t be coming back home in the same way. This home won’t be theirs anymore; they’ll be visiting, or staying temporarily until they find their own places.
Of course, it’s what we hope for as parents: that our children grow up and carve out their own paths. That’s the essence of parenting. Yet, preparing them for independence is not the same as preparing myself for their absence.
I’ll miss them when they’re gone. I will cherish flipping through camp photos of Jello wrestling, rope burns, and talent shows, searching for their carefree smiles—an innocent joy I rarely see now that they’re teenagers. I’ll even miss the smelly bags they bring home, filled with once-white t-shirts, mismatched socks, half-finished crafts, and inevitably, clothing belonging to other campers.
When the camp bus departs, and I watch 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 rain-soaked adventures, the endless songs, and inside jokes—is theirs to bear. My feelings can’t overshadow their experience. It will be hard because I understand what they are losing, even if they don’t fully grasp it yet. I know that the conclusion of camp also signifies the end of their childhood.
I will miss their childhood—for them, and for myself.
Summary
As my children prepare to leave Sleepaway Camp for the last time, I reflect on the bittersweet nature of their camp memories, the friendships they’ve built, and the inevitable transition to adulthood. While I’ll cherish the letters and the joy of their camp experiences, I also grapple with the emotions of letting them go as they approach college. This final summer at camp signifies not just their growth but also the poignant end of their childhood.
Keyphrase
final camp summer
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