For months now, I’ve been saying the same thing. “I’m actually kind of excited not to have Visiting Day this year.”
My daughter is away on a four-week trip with her division, so this is my first Visiting Day in a decade (aside from the summer of 2020) that I won’t be at camp.
No packing the cooler. No week of running errands trying to find that one thing she mentioned she’d love to have…only to watch her send it home with me to return. No swapping out clothes. No wondering how hot it’s going to be. No checking the weather every five minutes. (For the record, I have somehow never had a rainy Visiting Day.)
Honestly? I meant every word. As much as I love Visiting Day, I wasn’t exactly sad to skip the logistics.
Until I started writing about it. As we’ve been creating Summer 365 newsletters, social media posts, and Visiting Day resources over the past few weeks, something unexpected happened. I realized I wasn’t just writing about Visiting Day. I was remembering it. And somewhere between defining what it means to be “campstruck” and reminding parents to pack the sunscreen, it hit me.
I’m going to miss it. Not because of the planning. Not because of the food. Not because I secretly enjoy packing coolers (I don’t). I’m going to miss the traditions I didn’t even realize we had.
Every Visiting Day started long before we arrived at camp. The night before, everything had to be laid out and packed. The cooler was filled with all of my husband’s cooking – the requests that somehow made their way into every letter home. He always laughed at me because I was convinced there had to be one more thing I could bring that would make my kids smile.
The drive was about two hours, and I usually spent most of it working on Summer 365 content. Until we reached the Dunkin’ Donuts closest to camp. That was always the moment. The phone was put down. The work stopped. And just like that, we were in Visiting Day mode. The excitement would build with every mile. I couldn’t wait to see my kids.
When they were little, they’d spot us from across camp and come running, wrapping themselves around us like little koalas, arms and legs holding on as tightly as they could. As they got older, the hugs changed. They got taller. More independent. But somehow the hugs became even better. Every year they looked just a little older than the last time I’d seen them. Every year they had that unmistakable camp voice – that scratchy, almost-gone voice from weeks of cheering, singing, laughing, and squeezing every ounce out of camp (if you’ve ever heard “camp voice”, you know exactly what I mean!).
The rest of the day was beautifully ordinary. Spreading out a blanket on the grass. Going through everything we’d brought. Watching them devour “real food.” Walking through the bunks and seeing where they’d been living. Meeting the friends whose names we’d been hearing in letters. When they were younger, we’d walk around camp holding hands. As they grew up, they needed us a little less. I still remember my son’s first Visiting Day. At the end of the afternoon, he got quiet, looked at us, and said, “I’ll be okay…I just need you to leave.” It broke my heart in the moment. Now I realize it was one of the greatest gifts camp ever gave him.
At the end of the day, we’d make the long walk back to the car. It was always blazing hot after sitting in the parking lot all day. We’d grab the ice-cold waters we’d left waiting in the cooler, and as soon as we hit civilization, my phone would suddenly come alive as all the texts and photos from the day finally came through once we had service again.
Then my husband and I would spend the entire drive home replaying every moment.
Did you notice how confident she looked?
Can you believe how much they’ve grown?
Did you see the friendships?
Did you notice that camp wrist? We probably should schedule a dermatologist appointment in a month.
Were we just…campstruck?
Those conversations became as much a part of Visiting Day as the visit itself. And this year, there won’t be one. There won’t be a cooler packed with my husband’s cooking. There won’t be a stop at Dunkin’. There won’t be a blanket on the grass. There won’t be seeing our own “camp friends” – the families we somehow only ever see once a year on Visiting Day. There won’t be a hot walk back to the car or a two-hour recap on the ride home.
Most of all…
There won’t be that first hug.
The truth is, I wouldn’t change a thing. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be, having the kind of summer you dream your kids will have. I just didn’t realize that while she was off making memories, I’d be missing one of mine.
It’s funny how the things you once complained about quietly (or, umm…not so quietly..!?) become the things you miss the most. It turns out Visiting Day wasn’t just a tradition for my kids. It became one for me, too.
So if you’re heading to Visiting Day this weekend, I hope you have a really special day.
I hope the weather cooperates. I hope your camper eats every bite of the food you packed. I hope you get to see the bunk you’ve heard so much about. I hope you soak in the little moments between all the logistics. And if your day isn’t perfect? That’s okay too. Some Visiting Days are magical. Some are emotional. Some are awkward. Some are all three before lunch. That’s camp.
Take it all in anyway.
Because one day, you’ll realize that what you thought was just another summer tradition became one of your favorite memories.
And if your camper comes running toward you…
Hold on just a little longer.
I’d give just about anything for those first five minutes all over again.
About the contributor:
Julie Kaiden is our Director of Details and the voice behind our social media. Fun fact: she never to sleepaway camp herself – but we let that slide. Her daughter is currently away on IHC West so she will not get her Visiting Day hug. Her son has finished his camp journey and is headed to the University of Michigan this fall. If he reads this blog – which he won’t – he will find out he will have to hug her extra this Visiting Day.