Every summer, my children return from Sleepaway Camp full of stories that blend adventure with challenge: tales of trekking two miles uphill in pouring rain, canoeing through rapids, and plunging into icy waters. They recount the struggle of pitching tents only to discover leaks, the unappetizing camp meals, and the inevitable mosquito bites. Yet, these stories aren’t shared as complaints but as badges of honor. They speak with pride, having navigated these trials without their parents nearby. They cherish their camp experience.
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 joy of returning to a real bed, private bathroom, electronics, and decent food wears off—usually within three hours—they’ll start to feel a sense of loss. They’ll miss their friends and the community spirit of camp, quickly counting down the days until next summer. This year, however, there won’t be a next summer; my children have aged out of camp. While it’s disheartening for them, I find it equally difficult. It’s not just that my husband and I will miss seven weeks of child-free time next summer; this marks the end of an era.
Gone are the days of anticipation over bunk assignments and the excitement of Color War. This summer may also be the last time we exchange handwritten letters. For six years, I have eagerly awaited the mail, hoping for a note from my kids—something beyond bills and junk mail. Each summer, I’ve saved their letters, including one from my daughter at eleven, who expressed homesickness but reassured me, “don’t worry, it’s probably just puberty.” Another from my son, at twelve, scrawled on a post-it, lamented our lack of correspondence and requested baked goods for visiting day (a rare feat, but I obliged that summer). Most letters simply shared snippets of their daily lives, conveying their joy.
While I will receive emails and texts in the future, they lack the charm of letters: the evolution of handwriting, the frantic cross-outs, the splashes of color hinting at art projects or snack choices. I will miss the tangible connection of receiving real mail.
My children’s camp friends hold a unique place in their hearts. “They’re more like family,” my son once told me. I too have formed friendships with the parents of my kids’ campmates. After sending our children off, we spend the day together, enjoying the knowledge that they are together and thriving. We coordinate visiting weekends, sharing hotel stays and group dinners. At the Winter Camp reunion, we gather for a meal while the kids reconnect, relishing our own camaraderie. Will we remain in touch? I hope so, but without the common thread of camp, it’s uncertain.
I often refer to the time my children spend at camp as my “child-free summers.” The rest of the year is filled with their presence, but summer brings a temporary reprieve, one I cherish knowing it’s fleeting. After this summer, when they leave for college, it will be a different kind of separation.
Camp, like parenthood, knows when it’s time to let go. At fifteen, most camps say goodbye to their older campers, welcoming new faces to take their place. For me, these two wonderful, sometimes exasperating, teenagers are my only kids. Once they leave for college, they won’t truly return home. They’ll be visiting or preparing to set out on their own.
Of course, it’s what we aspire to as parents: to raise children who can lead fulfilling lives. Yet, preparing them for independence is vastly different from preparing ourselves for that reality.
I will miss them when they’re gone. I will miss sifting through camp photos, looking for glimpses of them during Jello wrestling, rope burn competitions, and talent shows, searching for the carefree smiles that seem to fade as they grow older. I’ll even miss the smelly duffel bags they return with, filled with once-white t-shirts, mismatched socks, half-finished crafts, and clothing bearing other campers’ names.
When the camp bus departs, and my children climb into our car, I know I’ll fight back tears. But those tears are theirs to shed. The loss of camp, of whimsical adventures and rain-soaked nights, of cherished songs and inside jokes, is their loss, and I must not overshadow it with my own feelings. It will be challenging because I understand what they are losing, even if they don’t fully grasp it yet. The end of camp signifies the end of their childhood.
I will miss their childhood—for them, but also for myself.
Summary:
This reflective piece explores the bittersweet feelings of a parent as their children age out of summer camp. It captures the transition from the joy of youthful adventures to the poignant realization of impending independence. The author reminisces about handwritten letters, camp friendships, and the unique experiences that create lasting memories, ultimately recognizing the inevitable changes that come with growing up.