The School Year Twilight

By Malkie Gordon Hirsch Magence

We’re at that funny point in the year when the kids seem to have collectively misplaced the memo that school is still in session. Homework is half-hearted, shoes are dirtier, and summer is calling so loudly that even teachers seem to be listening.

The bikes have been fixed—chains that were rusted over are replaced, and the seats that once had to be lowered for smaller legs have now been raised to match kids who seem to be growing like weeds overnight.

Year-end school trips have begun. Embarrassing yearbook ads are being submitted.

And tuition contracts for next year are quietly piling up in inboxes across the neighborhood.

The ice cream truck sings its familiar tune, circling our kid-filled blocks just as I’m putting dinner on the table, triggering an enthusiastic response I rarely get from my children at mealtime.

Their posture shifts, eyes wide and hopeful, silently asking if they can have dessert before dinner.

I relent.

Because I’m the cool mom.

Or at least I want to be.

Because it’s still sunny outside, and because we’re nearing the end of the school year—when everyone’s just a little lighter, a little happier.

As parents, we pivot seamlessly—from overspending on school supplies to overpreparing for camp.

And just in case anyone was worried that the kids might—gasp—rough it during their summer in the woods, rest assured: today’s campers arrive fully stocked.

Each one comes with their own mini fridge, personalized area rugs featuring favorite sports teams or snacks, fans that mist water, and containers for everything from snack bars to friendship bracelets.

Somehow, they require more gear for camp than they do for school. And I can’t help but ask myself: how much of it is truly necessary?

With all the advancements we’ve lived through—technological and otherwise—I sometimes mourn the simplicity my kids will never get to experience.

There was a time when we didn’t know everything happening in everyone else’s homes. If someone had something we didn’t, it stung—but we figured out how to deal with disappointment.

Online ordering didn’t exist.

Effort was required.

And with effort came a sense of earning, of appreciation.

The rewards felt sweeter, and individuality mattered more than matching the next person.

I miss those days. I miss them for our kids, who won’t know what it’s like to show up at camp with nothing more than a snap-on fan, a few pens, and the patience to wait on hold for an hour just to say hi to our parents.

Today’s updates are instant. Kids are given phones for short check-ins—complete with texts, voice notes, and video clips of camp happenings. It’s efficient, convenient, even a little magical—but it’s also missing something.

There was once a thrill in writing a letter home—choosing the perfect Lisa Frank stationery, adding doodles and stickers, pouring out a week’s worth of stories, and mailing it off knowing it wouldn’t arrive for days.

That waiting made the memories feel more meaningful. It gave them weight.

Now, everything happens in real time.

The joys, the disappointments, the bragging—it’s all instant, and all public.

There’s less time to reflect before sharing, less space to process privately.

And as I pack the duffel bags labeled with their names, filled with monogrammed towels, battery-powered fans, and enough gear to survive a small expedition, I can’t help but wonder: are we over-preparing them for comfort, and under-preparing them for resilience?

Still, I do it. Because that’s what we do as parents.

We adapt.

We want to give them what they need—and what they want—even if the line between the two gets blurrier every year.

So we stand in this twilight—the school year fading behind us, the summer sun just starting to rise—holding tightly to memories of our own simpler childhoods, while trying to shape meaningful ones for our children.

Even if they look entirely different. n

Malkie Gordon Hirsch Magence is a parent, writer, and nostalgic summer-camp enthusiast who believes a good letter home is worth waiting for. When not packing duffels or chasing the ice cream truck, you’ll find her writing about modern parenting, memory, and the beautiful chaos in between.