Structured Summer Camps vs Free Unscheduled Time: Which Is Right For Your Kids?
Last June, I wiped blue popsicle drips off my kitchen tile and stared at two pieces of paper pinned to the fridge: one was a color-coded, week-by-week schedule for my 10-year-old Lila’s summer camps, and the other was blank, saved for my 7-year-old Jax, who’d begged all spring to “just stay home and do nothing” this year. For the two prior summers, I’d signed both kids up for back-to-back structured camps—STEM, soccer, art, you name it. I’d bought into the idea that idle time meant endless screen time, that summer slide would erase every bit of progress they’d made in school, that I was dropping the ball if their days weren’t packed with enrichment. This year, Jax had a meltdown on his last day of first grade, crying that he never got to finish building his Lego castle because every afternoon we were rushing off to somewhere. I caved. I canceled all but one of his camp registrations (the week-long nature camp he’d actually asked to join) and told him he could plan his own days. Lila, who’d spent last summer complaining that slow weeks at home were “boring,” got the full packed schedule she’d begged for.
What followed wasn’t some perfect inspirational experiment, just a lot of ordinary moments that changed how I think about this whole debate. The first two weeks of Jax’s unscheduled time went nothing like I expected. He slept until 8:30 every morning (a miracle after a school year of 6am wake-ups), ate two pop-tarts for breakfast more often than not, and dragged every single Lego brick we own out onto the living room rug. He worked on that half-finished castle for three straight days, barely glancing at his tablet. I’d planned to nag him to get outside, to practice reading, to do something “productive” and he didn’t need any of it. I work from home, so I set a loose rule: between 9am and 1pm, I’m on calls and can’t stop what I’m doing to entertain you. I taped a short list of 5 things he could do on his own within 2 blocks of our house to the fridge: the public library, the neighborhood park, Mr. Henderson’s bee yard at the end of the street, the community garden, and the corner bodega for lollipops. I threw an extra bin of cheap craft supplies and unopened board games by the couch, and that was all the structure I added.
By the third week, he hit the inevitable lull. He moped through my office every 10 minutes, sighed that he was bored, and bugged me to turn on a movie. I almost grabbed my phone and signed him up for a last-minute half-day camp I’d seen advertised. Instead I just said, “Boredom feels crummy. What do you think you might want to do?” I didn’t offer suggestions, I didn’t fix it for him. An hour later, I looked out the window and saw him walking down the street toward Mr. Henderson’s house. He’d waved at that man every day for a year on our way to the bus stop, but never stopped to talk. That afternoon he came home with a jar of raw honey and a smudge of bee pollen on his cheek, talking nonstop about how bees make honey. For the next week, he checked out three bee books from the library, drew a dozen posters for Mr. Henderson’s roadside honey stand, and spent an hour every afternoon helping check hives. He never would have done that if I’d filled his days with camp.
On Lila’s side, she came home every day tired, but bouncing off the walls with new stories. She learned to do a cartwheel at gymnastics camp, baked lumpy chocolate chip cookies at cooking camp that we ate anyway, and made a new friend who lives 10 minutes away. But three weeks in, she woke up with a vague stomach ache and said she didn’t want to go to art camp that day. I almost made her go—I’d already paid $200 for the week, after all. But I let her stay home. She spent the whole day on the porch reading graphic novels, eating popsicles, and didn’t do a single “enriching” thing. That night, she told me she just needed a day to not have to follow anyone else’s rules.
What I’ve walked away with this year isn’t that one is better than the other—it’s that we too often default to what other people are doing, instead of matching the summer to our kid. The practical stuff that worked for me isn’t fancy: first, ask your kid specific questions instead of making the choice for them. Instead of “do you want camp?” ask “what’s one thing you hated about last summer?” and “what’s one thing you wish you had more time for?” That answer tells you way more than any general advice. Second, split the summer into chunks instead of going all in on one or the other. Even if your kid loves camp, build in a few 2-3 day stretches of nothing. Even if they love free time, add one structured activity they actually asked for, if that works for your budget. Third, when your kid says they’re bored, wait 10 minutes before you fix it. Just name the feeling and step back. Most of the time, they’ll figure something out that’s way more interesting than anything you could plan for them.
Last week of summer, we sat on that same porch eating popsicles, and both kids surprised me. Lila said she loved camp this year, but next year she wants two whole weeks of nothing built in. Jax said he loved his free time, but he wants to try two weeks of soccer camp next year. I don’t have the perfect answer for every family, and I don’t think there is one. I still see posts online talking about how structured camps kill creativity, or how unscheduled time is a waste of a summer. Neither feels true to what I saw this year. My kids got what they needed this year: one got to try new things and be around people every day, the other got to finish his Lego castle and learn about bees. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for us. Next year, we’ll probably do it differently. That’s okay.
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