
Summer camp scramble: US families need it, but it can cost as much as a month's rent
To give them an enriching summer, Khan tried a few alternatives. An Arabic immersion program still had spots open, but Khan wasn't impressed.
She occasionally takes them to swim lessons at a local community college for just $38 per child per week. But she has to be present for those twice-weekly, 35-minute sessions – which doesn't give her much-needed time to work. 'Honestly, America's not sustainable for parents,' Khan said. 'I'm leaning on grandma to help out because I'm very much burnt out.'
When school's out for summer, working parents of K-12 children face an annual high-stakes and often high-cost scramble to cobble together activities. The result is 'a really undercovered and also underfunded aspect of our safety net', according to journalist Katherine Goldstein, mother of three and the creator of The Double Shift newsletter on parenting.
Fifty-five percent of all K-12 children, an estimated 30 million, participated in at least one form of summer enrichment program in 2024, according to that year's National Summer Learning Association-American Camp Association summer experiences survey. But only 38% of children in lower-income families ($50,000 or less annually) did so, compared to 67% of children in upper-income households ($100,000 or more).
The solution for many families is to keep children at home and rely on friends and family to provide care. But camp can provide vital opportunities for socialization, learning and healthy food. Over six out of 10 lower income parents surveyed in 2024 wanted their children to have a camp experience. Yet, a third of US parents said that camp was financially out of reach.
'The kids who would most benefit from programming during the summer and having a safe place to be are not the ones who are going to summer camp,' Goldstein said.
The US summer camp dates to approximately 150 years ago when wealthy families sent their children away from polluted cities to experience fresh air and outdoor activities, according to American Camp Association interim president and CEO, Henry DeHart.
In the last 20 years, 'the biggest change is the rise in the interest in day camp', he said. Local day camps and weekly enrichment courses combined to make up 42% of the programs cited in the 2024 survey, compared to only 11% for overnight camp.
Information about the cost of summer activities is hard to come by; it can vary widely according to the type of camp and location. However, the American Camp Association estimates that day camps cost between $73-87 per day per child, with overnight camps ranging from $150-173.
Goldstein, a resident of Durham, North Carolina, calculated what nine weeks of camp would cost for her three children this year. It came to $10,000. Even for her upper middle-class family, a season of camp requires careful budgeting to afford.
DeHart said that 93% of camps offer financial assistance. One such camp is Urban Roots in downtown Reno, Nevada, which runs eight- and nine-week programs for children aged five to 14 at its teaching farm and kitchen.
Thirty percent of all slots go to scholarship students, offered on a sliding scale, said Jenny Angius, executive director of development and operations. The cost this year is $295 per child per week, or $2,655 for all nine weeks. The average rent in Reno is $1,950 per month.
The scholarships can cover more than just tuition, such as camp supplies or even transportation support. All children receive free breakfast and lunch.
This summer, Urban Roots also implemented payment plans through the end of the year 'so it doesn't feel like it's such a big hit for families, especially if they're coming multiple weeks or if they're sending multiple children', Angius said.
Cost is not the only barrier, however.
Many day camps do not run as long as the traditional workday. As a primarily outdoor camp, Urban Roots begins at 7.30am but ends at 2.30pm, in part to avoid the worst of the summer heat. This summer is the first in its 15 years of operation that it has received funding to provide extended care inside – but only until 4pm.
Camps also rarely run all summer, requiring 'a huge amount of mental load and logistics', in Goldstein's words, to put together a summer's worth of programming.
It starts with registration. Goldstein knows of public programs in Durham that fill up within two minutes of registration opening. Last year, Khan, the Chicago-area mother, and a friend texted each other reminders to set alarms for 10am on the day camp registration opened to claim spots.
Since 2022, Emily Popek has created a public spreadsheet listing all area programs in and around New York's Otsego county, where she lives with her husband and daughter. This year, it categorizes 67 programs by number of weeks, age group and registration date.
While that sounds like a wealth of options, only four of those programs run longer than a week. 'Every summer has just been this patchwork of care,' Popek said. And the Oneonta Boys and Girls Club program used to be free but started charging $100 per child per week this year.
'Daycare was a second mortgage for us,' Popek said. 'The cost of summer programs is basically comparable to that.'
Popek's research inspired her to write an open letter to local officials in 2024 asking why no municipal or school district programs existed. She also surveyed more than 40 local parents about their summer camp struggles. By her count, 87% listed scheduling as a barrier – the same number who listed cost. A comparable number, 82%, reported taking off work to cover summer childcare. Forty-one percent of parents brought their children to work.
'The narrative from our community leaders is that their top priority is to make this a great place to raise a family,' Popek said. '[That] doesn't just mean that we have a splash pad and some pretty banners hanging on Main Street … It means we have to invest in the infrastructure that actually supports families.'
Melissa Petro, whose seven-year-old son Oscar has generalized anxiety disorder and pathological demand avoidance, said: 'Camps won't even enroll kids like mine.' Her son needs a one-on-one aide. 'He's going to create havoc if he doesn't have supervision,' she said. But camps won't pay for or provide that service, and Petro estimates it would require at minimum $5,000.
So Petro and her husband become camp counselors for the six weeks his outdoor therapeutic school is closed. Because Oscar thrives outside, they usually visit the school campus. They take long hikes. He swims in the manmade pond and climbs trees. He makes art. But he misses out on the peer socialization he needs.
For those six weeks, Petro and her husband are essentially out of work. Last year, Petro had a book release in September but spent August with Oscar rather than working on promotion.
'Your whole life ends up revolving around accommodating your child,' she said.
Anecdotal data suggests that parents are feeling the economic pinch even more this year.
'Day camps have started to fill a little bit more slowly,' DeHart said, noting that this is the first drop in enrollment rate since the pandemic.
Many parents are turning their shared struggles into communal support. Khan recently invited an old friend and her two-year-old daughter over for dinner and a trip to a nearby park. Her sons loved playing with the toddler, and Khan's friend got some relief from parenting burnout.
Popek has found carpool partners while talking to other parents. 'Being in community with other families has been the most uplifting thing for me,' she said.
Goldstein is trying something new this summer. With the $10,000 she would have spent for camp, plus the $4,000 cost of a week at a state beach, she has created her own program.
For the first half of the summer, a trusted babysitter is watching the children at home. Then, the family will spend five weeks in Costa Rica, including a month-long camp for the same price as a week-long program at home.
'I don't see my solution as a systemic [one],' Goldstein stressed, noting that both she and her husband work at home under flexible conditions. 'It's more of an experiment within the confines of a broken system,' she said.
As Popek said: 'No one's coming to save us. We have to do it ourselves.'
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


The Guardian
4 hours ago
- The Guardian
‘Didn't have a pillow': the program kitting out foster students starting college
When Ar'reiona Green was accepted to Sacramento State last year, she knew she would need books and school supplies. She didn't expect to need a toolbox. Or hangers. Or that her dorm room wouldn't come with a fan or a lamp. Like many first-year students, Green, who is headed into her sophomore year and plans to become a plastic surgeon, was excited about her future adventures. But coming up through the foster system in California, she didn't know anyone who had gone to college. While she felt ready for her classes, life as a college student was mostly mysterious except for what she'd seen online. That's where Dec My Dorm stepped in. The program works with more than 140 foster youth headed to college, hosting an annual event in July to kit out each student with sheet sets, pillows, a shower caddy and connections to other people in the same situation. Green took part in the summer of 2024, leaving with several duffel bags filled with the things she needed, including many items she didn't know she would need, like dish soap. 'I was expecting bed stuff and towels,' Green said. 'I wasn't expecting them to give me period products and school supplies. They were giving out school merch and stepping stools and toolboxes. They really went above and beyond.' The program started in 2018 when Jill Franklin, a program manager of the Independent Living Program for the department of children and family services in Los Angeles county, met a student who came from the foster system. The young woman described arriving at the University of California at Berkeley with just a trash bag, not knowing that dorm rooms are spartan affairs with a desk, chair, bed with an oddly sized mattress – and that's it. 'She didn't have a pillow or a sheet or a towel, and everybody else was there with their parents and their bags of stuff,' Franklin said. 'At the time, I was editing college essays and I realized, we never ever thought about that first day.' Franklin started with a small Amazon wishlist and a handful of students. It was particularly important that the kids were involved in the process as much as possible, she said, because they were used to living in spaces that were not their own. 'You might have a 17-year-old who's on the football team and says: 'I don't want Minnie Mouse sheets,' but oh well, that's what it is, and they probably aren't going to be there for very long and it's not their bedroom,' said Franklin. 'It was very important that they pick their own bedding, their own towels and their own blankets, so that when they walk in that room, or someone else walks in that room, it says: 'This is who I am.'' In 2022, she met Phyllis Shinbane, who had retired as director of operations from Connecting a Caring Community, a non-profit organization based in Calabasas, California. Like many people, Shinbane had been unaware that foster youth often have nothing they can bring with them to college, but realized this was a need she could help fill. Along with CCC's executive director, Lisa Kodimer, and the Dec My Dorm co-chair Allison Weiss, they raised more than $40,000 in donations and connected with sponsors and volunteers to help 142 students in 2025. 'It's just leveling the playing field,' said Shinbane, who hopes to expand the program to other states. 'It's just putting them in a room where they're equal, where they're not different, where their past doesn't define them, that they are the same as every other college student that came from a supportive, structured, safe home.' Eight per cent to 11% of people in foster care obtain a bachelor's degree, said Sarah Wasch, associate director of the Field Center for Children's Policy, Practice & Research at the University of Pennsylvania. Although most people in foster care can remain in the system until they are at least 21 years old, many foster parents don't have the funds to furnish a dorm room. 'There's a disconnect around who is responsible to oversee that transition,' Wasch said. 'For youth in foster care, it's very unclear if it's the foster family's responsibility, the case manager's, the court's or the legal guardian's.' While some states have programs addressing foster care and higher education, efforts remain piecemeal and there are plenty of gaps to fill, like dorm room needs and storage over summers, she said. Most colleges have support systems specifically aimed at supporting students who come from the foster system, like the Guardian Scholars program in California. Those focus mainly on financial support for tuition and meals, and advising for classes, not for student life. At one point, legislation was introduced to create a federal center that would coordinate state efforts, but it did not pass, Wasch said. Kelisha Williams, a foster student from Kentucky who graduated from Harvard University last spring, said she wished there had been a program like Dec My Dorm when she was going to school. Although Harvard provided a list of dorm room essentials, she watched a lot of YouTube videos to figure out what she would need to fit in and worked to save the money. She emphasized that it's not just about having the essentials, like a shower caddy and a bar of soap. Not having those things could make foster students feel like they don't belong. 'I knew that was going to be a big hurdle, and I did not want anyone to know that I was not like them, or that I didn't deserve to be there,' Williams, 22, said. 'So I kind of just made sure that I worked the summer before to have everything that I needed, even, you know, if it was kind of plush objects like posters and things like that.' Shinbane said that many volunteers were enthusiastic about going with students to set up their dorm rooms, if desired, but there were legal concerns about privacy. The organization offers other resources, like free eye-screening and glasses, and providing students with a resource folder with QR codes linking students to food assistance, clothing programs and campus support. They invite former participants to come meet the new class headed to college, so they can offer advice and support. 'This program is like a living, breathing thing,' Shinbane said. 'It evolves every year, and our goal is to provide them with services and resources to help ensure their success.'


The Guardian
5 hours ago
- The Guardian
‘Didn't have a pillow': the program kitting out foster students starting college
When Ar'reiona Green was accepted to Sacramento State last year, she knew she would need books and school supplies. She didn't expect to need a toolbox. Or hangers. Or that her dorm room wouldn't come with a fan or a lamp. Like many first-year students, Green, who is headed into her sophomore year and plans to become a plastic surgeon, was excited about her future adventures. But coming up through the foster system in California, she didn't know anyone who had gone to college. While she felt ready for her classes, life as a college student was mostly mysterious except for what she'd seen online. That's where Dec My Dorm stepped in. The program works with more than 140 foster youth headed to college, hosting an annual event in July to kit out each student with sheet sets, pillows, a shower caddy and connections to other people in the same situation. Green took part in the summer of 2024, leaving with several duffel bags filled with the things she needed, including many items she didn't know she would need, like dish soap. 'I was expecting bed stuff and towels,' Green said. 'I wasn't expecting them to give me period products and school supplies. They were giving out school merch and stepping stools and toolboxes. They really went above and beyond.' The program started in 2018 when Jill Franklin, a program manager of the Independent Living Program for the department of children and family services in Los Angeles county, met a student who came from the foster system. The young woman described arriving at the University of California at Berkeley with just a trash bag, not knowing that dorm rooms are spartan affairs with a desk, chair, bed with an oddly sized mattress – and that's it. 'She didn't have a pillow or a sheet or a towel, and everybody else was there with their parents and their bags of stuff,' Franklin said. 'At the time, I was editing college essays and I realized, we never ever thought about that first day.' Franklin started with a small Amazon wishlist and a handful of students. It was particularly important that the kids were involved in the process as much as possible, she said, because they were used to living in spaces that were not their own. 'You might have a 17-year-old who's on the football team and says: 'I don't want Minnie Mouse sheets,' but oh well, that's what it is, and they probably aren't going to be there for very long and it's not their bedroom,' said Franklin. 'It was very important that they pick their own bedding, their own towels and their own blankets, so that when they walk in that room, or someone else walks in that room, it says: 'This is who I am.'' In 2022, she met Phyllis Shinbane, who had retired as director of operations from Connecting a Caring Community, a non-profit organization based in Calabasas, California. Like many people, Shinbane had been unaware that foster youth often have nothing they can bring with them to college, but realized this was a need she could help fill. Along with CCC's executive director, Lisa Kodimer, and the Dec My Dorm co-chair Allison Weiss, they raised more than $40,000 in donations and connected with sponsors and volunteers to help 142 students in 2025. 'It's just leveling the playing field,' said Shinbane, who hopes to expand the program to other states. 'It's just putting them in a room where they're equal, where they're not different, where their past doesn't define them, that they are the same as every other college student that came from a supportive, structured, safe home.' Eight per cent to 11% of people in foster care obtain a bachelor's degree, said Sarah Wasch, associate director of the Field Center for Children's Policy, Practice & Research at the University of Pennsylvania. Although most people in foster care can remain in the system until they are at least 21 years old, many foster parents don't have the funds to furnish a dorm room. 'There's a disconnect around who is responsible to oversee that transition,' Wasch said. 'For youth in foster care, it's very unclear if it's the foster family's responsibility, the case manager's, the court's or the legal guardian's.' While some states have programs addressing foster care and higher education, efforts remain piecemeal and there are plenty of gaps to fill, like dorm room needs and storage over summers, she said. Most colleges have support systems specifically aimed at supporting students who come from the foster system, like the Guardian Scholars program in California. Those focus mainly on financial support for tuition and meals, and advising for classes, not for student life. At one point, legislation was introduced to create a federal center that would coordinate state efforts, but it did not pass, Wasch said. Kelisha Williams, a foster student from Kentucky who graduated from Harvard University last spring, said she wished there had been a program like Dec My Dorm when she was going to school. Although Harvard provided a list of dorm room essentials, she watched a lot of YouTube videos to figure out what she would need to fit in and worked to save the money. She emphasized that it's not just about having the essentials, like a shower caddy and a bar of soap. Not having those things could make foster students feel like they don't belong. 'I knew that was going to be a big hurdle, and I did not want anyone to know that I was not like them, or that I didn't deserve to be there,' Williams, 22, said. 'So I kind of just made sure that I worked the summer before to have everything that I needed, even, you know, if it was kind of plush objects like posters and things like that.' Shinbane said that many volunteers were enthusiastic about going with students to set up their dorm rooms, if desired, but there were legal concerns about privacy. The organization offers other resources, like free eye-screening and glasses, and providing students with a resource folder with QR codes linking students to food assistance, clothing programs and campus support. They invite former participants to come meet the new class headed to college, so they can offer advice and support. 'This program is like a living, breathing thing,' Shinbane said. 'It evolves every year, and our goal is to provide them with services and resources to help ensure their success.'


The Independent
7 hours ago
- The Independent
How Orthodox Jewish families are finding ways to support their trans children
Ziva Mann remembers how joyful and smiley her daughter was as a child — the family even gave her the nickname 'Giggles.' 'She was just sunshine,' Mann said. That changed around second grade, when her joy began to fade. 'She got sadder and sadder,' Mann recalled. 'It was like watching someone disappear.' Mann later realized that her child's growing sadness was connected to a struggle to reckon with her gender identity. Her daughter came out as transgender at home in Massachusetts four years ago. 'Mom, I'm a girl,' Mann remembers hearing her say. Though she was surprised by the news, she quickly came to admire her daughter's bravery. Since then, the family has striven to find the best ways to support Ellie within their modern Orthodox community, where tradition and strict gender roles shape daily life. They've managed to find emotional and spiritual resources close to home at a time when transgender rights are under attack nationwide. Raising a trans child in Orthodox Jewish communities Two of the three biggest branches of Judaism in the U.S. — Reform and Conservative — support the rights of transgender people, but it can still be challenging for trans youth to find an inclusive congregation. Schools in Orthodox Jewish communities are typically divided by gender, and most synagogues have separate seating sections for men and women — sometimes on different floors. ' Orthodoxy today is just binary,' said Myriam Kabakov, co-founder and executive director of Eshel, an organization supporting LGBTQ+ people in Orthodox environments. 'You're either male or you're female. So if a trans person is in between transitioning, very often they will be asked not to come to synagogue.' She said even after someone has fully transitioned, rabbis should allow them to sit where they feel comfortable. But that acceptance is not guaranteed. To connect parents and trans children with inclusive synagogues, Eshel developed a program called 'Welcoming Shuls,' where people can confide in spiritual leaders who will treat them with respect. According to Kabakov, about 300 rabbis and 160 families with trans members have joined their listings. Deslie Paneth is among them. She lives on Long Island and has traveled far to find support for Ollie, her transgender son. 'One night, I said to my husband 'I need help, I don't know how to navigate this,'' Paneth said. 'Without Eshel, I don't know how this would have turned out for any of us.' Balancing tradition and change Mann defines herself as modern Orthodox, meaning she strives to uphold Judaic law while embracing the values within her family. 'The only time we break the rules is to save someone's life,' she said. 'Because a life is more important than all of the rules.' Respecting her daughter's identity felt akin to saving her life, so Mann didn't feel the need to talk to God about it. She said who her daughter is as a person mattered more than the gender she thought she had. Mann has heard of families with trans children who were asked to leave their synagogue, but this didn't happened to her. Before discussing Ellie's identity with other relatives, Mann reached out to her rabbi. He assured her that her daughter would be treated with dignity and respect. 'He offered us a blessing,' Mann said. 'The strength, the love and the grace to parent a child who's walking a difficult path.' Finding a place to belong Mann feels lucky to have found support, both in religious spaces and among family members, which has helped Ellie be her joyful self again. Some Orthodox families have faced a tougher process. Paneth recalled her son, before starting his transition around 2017, was deeply religious and they enjoyed sitting together at synagogue. 'He tells me still today that, especially around the holiday times, it hurts him that he can't sit next to me in temple,' Paneth said. 'He's probably my child that has the strongest commitment to Judaism from an emotional connection." A rabbi told Paneth that Ollie is welcome to come to services, but he would now be expected to sit among the men. This is part of the reason why Ollie has not returned to synagogue since his transition. Faith and identity at a crossroads Ollie believes that his relationship with religion splintered as a student in an all-girls Orthodox Jewish high school. As he started raising questions about gender equality, none of the answers sufficed. 'I'm still convinced that if I wasn't trans, I would still be a religious Jew,' the 27-year-old said. He initially told his parents he was a lesbian. But since attending a secular college, making LGBTQ+ friends and feeling trapped during the pandemic, he decided to speak with them again. 'If I was going to survive this, I had to come out with my parents as trans and start medically transitioning.' He had top surgery in 2022 and soon after met his girlfriend at JQY, a program for Jewish LGBTQ+ teens. The couple now lives together in New York. Ollie doesn't think of himself as Orthodox, and says he would like to find a new path toward God. Paneth understands and still includes him in the Jewish holidays. Ollie appreciates it. Because he first connected to God as a girl, it doesn't feel natural to him to embrace traditions that are typical for Jewish men, like wearing a kippah. 'I don't do any of the tasks that men do religiously because I'm the same person I always was,' he said. 'Even though I look different, my relationship to God didn't change.' Making synagogues more inclusive Kabakov said many LGBTQ+ Jews eventually decide to leave Orthodoxy, but for those who wish to remain, Eshel and some spiritual leaders offer support. Rabbi Mike Moskowitz, who works at an LGBTQ+ synagogue in New York, thinks of his job as helping people understand how they can be their authentic selves and still feel accepted by their religion. 'It's not that Judaism is the problem,' he said. 'Orthodoxy, the people, are the problem.' The counseling he provides for trans children and their parents is specific to each person, but in general, he offers fresh interpretations of the Hebrew Bible. 'Those who want to be transphobic say the Bible says you can't wear misgendered clothing,' Moskowitz said. 'I think a response is that trans folks are not wearing misgendered clothing. They're wearing gender-affirming clothing.' He, like Kabakov, believes there's a trend in Orthodoxy toward more inclusivity, but there's more work to do. 'Discrimination is unholy,' he said. 'Unity is coping through kindness and being able to replace the weight of oppression with the elevation of love.' ____ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.