Visiting Day: Survivor—Catskills Edition

Visiting Day: Survivor—Catskills Edition

By Malkie Gordon Hirsch Magence 

I don’t know about you, but my kids’ summer plans are secured as soon as the first e-mail goes out—with details of camp programs and activities—usually about a week after the previous summer ends.

The people who run these camps know a few things:

That parents will pay a premium to keep their kids busy for the summer.

That there are a lot of us and limited spots.

And that all it takes is two days home with our kids before we start counting down until someone else takes over their schedule, while we feign sadness about being separated for two months.

But don’t worry—camp gets us back for our temporary freedom. They call it Visiting Day.

In my house, we put coins in a swear jar every time someone reminds me that I’ll soon be spending 12 hours driving up and around the Catskills—desperately searching for something, anything, besides Walmart to entertain children with insatiable thirst for activity during the measly 5-hour window we’re allowed to visit.

If you think I sound dramatic, I promise you: Visiting Day ranks right up there with PTA meetings and doctors’ appointments in my Least Anticipated Events of the Year list.

It’s not just the traffic (though 8 hours on the road upstate on a Sunday isn’t for the faint of heart). It’s getting to camp and discovering—with horror—that your son hasn’t used any of the clothes you packed, labeled, and folded lovingly. Instead, they’ve been lost in the laundry shuffle, traded for snacks, or shoved into an overflowing laundry bag like they’re radioactive.

He greets you with a big smile, and you wonder if he’s even showered since you waved goodbye two weeks ago.

None of that particularly bothers me—I chalk it up to the “outdoorsy camp experience.”

But then I lock eyes with another mother, whose son is in the same bunk, and I see it: the mix of horror, urgency, and a desperate attempt to regain some control over her crusty child’s life.

The first mission is entering the bunkhouse. That alone requires a level of bravery not every parent possesses. It’s no easy feat, especially in bunks built for 20 that now hold 35. But in we go.

I passed a bench of dads waiting outside—clearly traumatized. When I asked one why he wouldn’t go in, he just shook his head: “Can’t do it.”

But nothing stops a mother on a mission. She will change those sheets. She will face the laundry pile full of shirts that were tried on but never worn. She will shimmy through the five inches of space between bunk beds and wonder how boys even climb up there at night. (Answer: They’re far more capable than we give them credit for.)

At some point, housekeeping work turns into a need for a bathroom break. She considers using the stalls in the back of the bunkhouse—then immediately reconsiders. Now it’s time for the clean bathroom scavenger hunt. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s just say: finding a decently clean toilet on Visiting Day is like finding gold. If you know, you know.

Then comes the next challenge: how to entertain your kids for 4 hours. The goal is clear: Spend as much money as humanly possible in that time.

So, naturally, we take them out to eat—where we’re guaranteed to run into 80% of the other parents trying to do the same thing. It’s basically Survivor: Visiting Day Edition in the Catskills. That takes care of about 90 minutes.

Then it’s off to Walmart to replenish snacks—because somehow, they’ve burned through every sugar-based product you sent them within 10 days. We buy out the candy aisle and later feign shock at the dentist when he discovers three new cavities. Funny how we forget the sheer desperation of trying to give our kids the best day ever before sending them back for another few weeks of snack trades and campfires.

As the day wraps up, emotions shift. Some kids practically skip back to camp, eager for the night’s special dinner and activities. Others cry and cling and need to be peeled off their parents.

This year, I had one of each. One kid barely looked back. The other—I couldn’t stop thinking about the whole drive home. I obsessed over whether he’d recover quickly, if the homesickness would pass. (Reader, it always does.) But I still agonize over how he’s feeling until I see a picture of him in the same outfit he wore on visiting day with that goofy smile on his face and then I’m instantly comforted as well as grossed out by the notion that the counselor he has that we’ve paid to look see him hasn’t gently suggested he change clothes or shower or wash his face. Money well spent.

I suppose all of these emotions are part of the experience—for both parents and kids. The anticipation of seeing each other. The joy of the reunion. The ache of goodbye. And learning how to cope with it all.

Despite the chaos, the traffic, the questionable bathrooms, and the overpriced lunches, I still remember my own Visiting Days as a camper—with fondness. I hope my kids will, too. n

Malkie Gordon Hirsch Magence is a native of the Five Towns community, a mom of five, a writer, and a social media influencer.