I didn’t realize registering my child for summer camp would require strategy, speed, and emotional resilience. I had no clue how competitive camp sign-up is in Arlington, Virginia. Honestly—not just summer camp. Any activity.

Swimming classes? I go to my friend’s house, her husband stays home from work, and the three of us sit there with our computers and phones open trying to see who gets the best spot in the queue. It’s stressful. I imagine this is what it feels like trying to get Taylor Swift tickets.

I have never hated seeing the word “waitlist” more than I do now. It basically means nothing. Here is some fake hope you might get the spot. Good luck, sucker. Never once have I been on a waitlist and actually gotten off of it.

And the sticker shock. Lord help us. For the cost of a one-week camp that isn’t even full day, she better come back speaking another language fluently and understanding how to do taxes.

One week of camp. 9:00–12:30. $850.

Get the f out of here.

You know what I want to spend $850 on? A blow-up pool, wine, and cheese. The last two are for me.

Seriously though, it’s a little ridiculous how insanely expensive these camps are.

Here I go sounding like a boomer, but when I was a kid, we played outside in the neighborhood until someone’s mom yelled our name or the sun started setting. Those were the good old days—freedom, bikes, sprinklers, and drinking from the hose like it was completely normal.

I went to camps as a kid too, but I know for a fact it wasn’t like waiting in line for the newest iPhone. And it definitely wasn’t this expensive.

Now summer feels like a competitive sport for parents.

Who got into what camp?
Who remembered registration opened at midnight?
Who made the spreadsheet?
Who somehow already has their child signed up for tennis, STEM, art, coding, and wilderness survival camp by February?

Meanwhile I’m over here just hoping mine has a fun summer and remembers to wear sunscreen occasionally.

My daughter will probably do a tennis camp like she did last year, spend endless days and nights at “Grumps and Dipper Camp” (my parents), hang out with me, see friends, and hopefully go to the pool regularly—if we can get into one. That’s a whole separate Arlington issue.

And honestly? That sounds pretty great to me.

Because when I think back on my own summers, I don’t remember enrichment. I remember freedom. I remember boredom. I remember popsicles, bikes, catching lightning bugs, and staying outside until it got dark.

I understand how important camps are for working parents, and I truly give props to the parents who make the spreadsheets, stay on top of registration dates, and somehow manage it all. But sometimes I wonder if we’ve made childhood—and parenting—a little too intense.

Maybe kids don’t need a perfectly curated summer.
Maybe they just need one that feels like summer.