The Confidence That Grows When Parents Step Back - New Camper Blog Series

One of the classic Greystone songs – the first many young campers learn and an earworm that never leaves many of us – is titled “Happy Am I at Camp Greystone.” Memorable not just for its jaunty rhythm or easy-to-learn hand motions, it is an encapsulation of the spirit of a Greystone summer: the campers truly are happy, most if not all of the time. Greystone is a profoundly joyful place, one I loved for many years as a camper myself and one that I could not wait to share with my daughter as soon as she reached camp age.

Imagine my surprise, then, as a former camper and a true believer in all things Greystone, that when I first dropped my own daughter Adele off three summers ago, I was not at all happy. Happy was not I! I missed her; I selfishly wished she were home with me; I worried about her; and I checked my phone constantly for evidence of her smile. It became quickly obvious, however, that my malaise had nothing to do with my daughter and what was best for her, but instead had everything to do with what was best for me.

Over the three years that she has now been a camper, I have come to appreciate that while my tender maternal heart may wish to keep my child near me (on my lap, reading a picture book!) forever, clearly what is best for her – and what is profound about a camp experience – is a measure of independence and distance. The reason that Adele comes home standing an inch taller, taking more responsibility around the house, and greeting new friends and adventures with increased confidence is directly related to my distance and consequent inability to monitor, intervene, support, and cajole. The quick drop-off on Opening Day is a perfect example of this tension between what is right for my daughter and what would be easiest for me: certainly I would prefer a longer hug, and just as certainly, she has thrived with the smooth and decisive transition.

It is with full understanding of this tension – between what is best for a child and what is comfortable for adults – that I received with equanimity and even a dose of relief the news this year about the reduced cadence of photo uploads. Like probably every reader of this blog, screens and devices are on my mind (and in my hands) pretty constantly. By now we all know that constant online stimulation interferes with our ability to be present, and it turns out that we all benefit when institutions impose structure upon us, encouraging us to take breaks. How wonderful that when my daughter arrives at camp in June, due to the new photo policy, she will have fewer opportunities to stop what she’s doing to think about what her hair looks like – or what her parents might think about her activity or her friends. How glorious that she will have at least one day per week (appropriately, the Sabbath) in which she won’t have a direct line to me through photos or email. What a gift this slower, less externally-focused experience will be!

It’s worth noting that I think this gift goes both ways. It has not escaped me that my daughter’s blissful experience away from digital life at camp has at times coincided with an inverse experience for me: the steady drip of photo alerts has often tethered me to my phone more closely when Adele was at camp than for the rest of the year.

I started this blog by meditating on the tension between what is good for our daughters and what is easy for parents. It would be easier for me, of course, to drag out goodbye on Opening Day, to make Adele’s bed for her, grab that last hug. It might be easier, too, to know that I could get a photo every single day while she is at camp. Ultimately, though, camp was designed for the growth of the child, not the comfort of the adult. There is a confidence girls learn when they see that their parents trust them enough to wave goodbye and let them sort out unpacking their trunk. And on the other end of the spectrum, there is a small but real cost to the girls when they have to perform for cameras, a notable reminder of the world outside the bubble. Camp is a place for unstudied, unaffected girlhood – maybe the last place I know for it. It is to be treasured. And, I believe that camp’s recent addition of structures that protect its sacred bubble is responsive to the “always on” times in which we live – and a gift to child and parent alike.