Well, here it is: once again, summer vacation is almost upon us. How do I know this? I don’t know: maybe it’s because every other school day involves some sort of a field trip, concert or class party. Or maybe it’s because on those rare days when my kids actually have to do some kind of schoolwork they complain about it like French civil servants who have just been told they’re losing one of their seventy-three paid holidays. Or maybe it’s simply because everywhere I go I see ads for “summer day camps.” Everyone has their banners up: gyms, daycares, schools, churches—I’m surprised that bars and restaurants aren’t getting into the game as well and advertising some day camps of their own. (Actually, I think they are; it’s just that they put their ads in the help wanted sections, under “dishwasher needed.”)
And then, of course, there’s always the sleep-away camps: hockey camp, soccer camp, band camp, chess camp, fat camp (er, I mean fit camp), bible camp—the list is endless. In fact, it’s almost enough to make me feel guilty that the only thing my kids are going to be doing all summer long is sitting around the house, playing video games, watching inappropriate cartoons on Netflix instant queue, and eating their own weight in Fruity Pebbles.
Almost.
The one thing that’s stopping me from feeling guilty is the fact that that was the exact same way my sister and I used to spend our summers, and we turned out okay. Mostly. Okay, sure: our summers weren’t exactly the same. The only video game we had was “Pong,” and instead of Netflix instant queue we had a choice of four channels filled with daytime shows like “Oil Painting For Beginners,” “Sit and Be Fit,” and “Pets on Parade” And, yeah, my mom wouldn’t buy us Fruity Pebbles, so we had to make our own by dumping unsweetened Kool-Aid and a cup of sugar on top of a bowl of generic rice crispies. (We also made our own Oreo filling by mixing together crisco and sugar. Yum-O!) But still, even with the homemade junk food and semi-educational TV, we turned out okay.
Mostly.
The thing is, the only time I do remember going to a day camp was the one summer I whined too much about not having anything to do, and in retaliation my mom sent me to a day camp run by the school district. What this meant was that everyday I had to go back to the very same school I had just escaped from, and then spend all day long doing the same “fun” outdoor activities I had worked so hard to avoid in gym class. Things like archery, and kickball, and lanyard weaving. (Yeah, I know that making lanyard keychains isn’t really an “outdoor” activity—unfortunately, the people running the camp didn’t. Or maybe it was just that everything at this camp was an “outdoor activity”—only the counselors were allowed to go inside the buildings. Which was awful, because every time they came back out they would be holding some sort of icy cold drink, which us “campers”—limited to one small dixie cup of warm water every hour—would stare at with unrequited longing. Did I mention that this camp was in Phoenix? In July?)
It was torture. It was hell. But I guess, in the end, it was educational, because I learned the most valuable lesson a child can learn. And one that, it seems, my children have managed to learn as well (perhaps by osmosis), which must be why they have never once complained about their own summer arrangements.
The lesson? That no matter what, never, ever, tell your mother that you’re bored. Trust me; your future as a lanyard artist may depend on it.