As the school year wrapped up, several parents congregated around a picnic table during the third-grade end-of-year celebration. We exchanged pleasantries about how quickly the year had flown by before diving into the topic that was on everyone’s minds: summer plans.
“We’ve got soccer camps, horse camp, and a trip to Disneyland lined up,” one mom mentioned enthusiastically.
“We’re booked with art camp, gymnastics, swim lessons, and a sleepaway Girl Scout camp in August,” chimed in another parent.
“And you guys?” asked a familiar face from across the table.
“Well,” I replied, trying to mask my mixture of excitement and apprehension, “we’re keeping it pretty unscheduled this year. We’re embracing a 1980s summer.”
Thanks to a hodgepodge of laziness, disorganization, frugality, and indifference, I had planned very few activities for my children this summer. As May came around and I hadn’t succumbed to the rush of enrolling them in camps or lessons, I decided to take a more relaxed approach. This was a new me: a laid-back, Type B mother who let her kids run barefoot through the sprinklers. No more sunscreen labelings, no camp T-shirts to buy, and no lessons to rush to. We would lounge around and savor every moment.
As a part-time working mom to a nearly 9-year-old and a preschooler, I was used to a school year filled with structured childcare. However, after committing to this 1980s summer—sans school or camp—I realized I’d be trading in my precious “me time” for constant family togetherness. What had I gotten myself into?
When June arrived, we initiated our new routine. Twice a week, I taught classes while my kids spent time in the recreation center’s childcare room. The rest of the time was ours to fill as we pleased. We enjoyed swimming, watched dollar movies, played with neighborhood friends, and embraced leisurely mornings. It was blissful; we often woke up around 8:30 AM, allowing the kids to grab their own pre-packaged breakfasts while I lounged in bed with coffee and a novel. Almost utopian—until it wasn’t.
As the weeks rolled on, I found myself comparing our summer routine to the carefree days of my own childhood. While there were some similarities, I couldn’t ignore two major differences: guilt and anxiety.
In my childhood, I wasn’t confined indoors while the neighbor kids played outside. I had the freedom to roam, but as a parent, I felt tethered to my children. I stationed myself on the driveway in a worn-out chair, ever vigilant, ready to shout “Car!” at the slightest hint of danger. Gone were the days of bike rides to the store for candy or the joy of my kids disappearing for hours into friends’ houses.
At the playground, I tried to resist hovering over my kids, but the internal voice of “helicopter mom” echoed in my mind. A small crack in the pavement could lead to a head injury, a few too many sugary drinks could spark hyperactivity, and the unknown could signal danger lurking around the corner.
Even when I allowed myself to sneak away—whether to scroll through my phone at the park or take a break in my office during a Netflix binge—guilt nagged at me. Shouldn’t I be building blanket forts instead? Or baking muffins instead of scrolling through social media? It felt unjust to enjoy some alone time while they played upstairs.
The irony was staggering—if I ever managed to suppress my anxiety and grant my kids a bit more independence, guilt over my self-indulgence followed closely behind. My own mother surely felt relieved when we wandered off to play, rather than worrying about how she could enrich our lives further.
To some extent, I do relish those rare moments of self-care, soaking up the joy of uninterrupted sunbathing or quietly drafting an essay. But it rarely happens without that familiar wave of guilt and anxiety: “You’re supposed to be spending quality time with them right now.” What if they’re missing out on enriching experiences, or falling behind their peers?
One of my favorite books, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by the late Susan Jeffers, emphasizes that the goal isn’t to eliminate fear, but to acknowledge it and push through. I’ve adapted this philosophy to also include guilt: feel the guilt and do it anyway—allow myself the freedom to let go a little.
So, I’ve decided to fully embrace our version of a 1980s summer. It may lack the independence I would prefer and come with a sprinkle of worry and supervision, but it can still carry the essence of a relaxed, free-spirited, unstructured vacation that I cherished as a child. We will sleep in, waste time, embark on spontaneous outings, connect with friends, and yes, get a little messy. Together, we will create lasting memories.
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Summary:
In this piece, I reflect on the challenges of creating a laid-back 1980s summer for my kids amidst feelings of guilt and anxiety. While I aimed for unstructured fun, I grappled with modern parenting worries that my own mother didn’t face. Ultimately, I strive to embrace our unique summer experience, filled with spontaneous adventures and cherished moments.