My twin 15-year-olds have been spending their summers in a beautiful overnight camp in Maine for the last several years. It is a magical place that my children can’t wait to return to every June. I am always happy when they are happy, but I dread their departure.

They are gone for a full seven weeks, during which time I am allowed to speak to them on the phone just twice for 10 minutes each. If they were serving time in prison, I think I would be able to communicate with them more. I miss them terribly and write to each of them every single day. My son stops opening my letters after week three, I suspect, but I send them anyway. I have even tried to bribe my kids to stay home for at least one session, and I am not entirely ashamed to say so. In a few short years they will be out of my house for good, and for now, I would like them to stay in it as much as possible.

I know I am not the norm. Other parents at camp drop-off look deliriously happy. Some are booked on flights that very evening to wherever their kids aren’t, and they can’t wait for the buses to start loading. I envy those parents. They are the ones who post pictures of their children leaving on Instagram and caption them with, “don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” along with emojis of wine glasses and celebratory smiley faces. They love their kids as much as I do, but they love their summer freedom, too.

Emotionally, I can’t get there. I accept that I am unusual in this regard … but I am not altogether crazy. When the email from camp arrived a few weeks ago announcing that Visiting Day would be canceled because of Covid concerns, you may have heard me — wherever you are — because I roared with joy. It may have been one of the happiest days of my life, now that I think about it. Visiting Day would go virtual. It was music to my ears.

I love my kids, but I hate Visiting Day. Each year my husband and I pay a fortune for the equivalent of a motel room in Portland, Maine, so we can wake up really early, rent an overpriced car, and drive to camp with a duffel bag of junk food to see our children for what is always the single worst day on the calendar each year. I am thrilled to see them, and to hug them, and to check for sunburns and unbrushed teeth. All that could have happened on Zoom, minus the hug. 

The check-in line is long and the weather is always part of the conspiracy to make the day as difficult as possible. If it isn’t raining, it is the hottest day in recent memory. If we don’t arrive early, we fail to snag one of the eight picnic tables that will serve as home base for the day. Our fate lies with the blanket we brought being thick enough to pad us against the rocks on the ground underneath. We bathe in bug repellent but still get mosquito bites. Even if we wanted to eat the food, the flimsy paper plates buckle under the weight of the hamburger, and our meal ends up on the grass. 

Our kids are happy to see us, and the Sour Patch Kids they ordered, for about the first 15 minutes, at which time the excitement wears off. Then they ask if we want to see their bunk. We don’t, because we remember it doesn’t have air conditioning, but I tie my hair up in a ponytail and go look at their barracks, pretending that the bed looks comfortable.

There is no program, so we wander around. Our camp has a beautiful lake that I am happy to look at, but not swim in. Standing at the dock, we watch our kids jumping on the aqua park and wonder why there aren’t more benches at the shore. We have been here before so no need to revisit the tennis courts or the art room. Now what? There is never a good answer to that question.

Four hours later we are sweaty and exhausted and saying goodbye. We realize our kids spent most of the day with their friends while we huddled under a tree with their parents, chatting. We really could have done this back home. When we leave, I plead for a two-line letter offering proof of life and remind my kids to wear brightly colored shirts so they are easier to spot in the online photos.

Visiting Day is for first-time families. For everyone else, it should be abolished. I don’t want my kids to go to camp, but they go anyway. Okay, I have learned to live with that, but why should I have to go too? Spare us, please. Make camp a week shorter, eliminate Visiting Day, and I will happily pay the same tuition. I would rather give that money to the camp that my children love than to United Airlines and the Ramada Inn.

Virtual Visiting Day is a stroke of genius. Why didn’t anyone think of it sooner?