By Jon Show – Today is the first day of summer for kids in Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools. A day of freedom. A day of promise. Just a day, for the rest of us.

As I arise today on what is just another Thursday for us parents, Future Man is still in bed. He doesn’t start his summer job until next week, so he’s making the best of the time off before arising at 7:30 a.m. the rest of the summer to help work sports camps.

If you have a child attending a sports camp this summer, he’s asked me to pass along a polite request. When checking in each morning, please don’t rely on your child to voice his or her full name when there are 20 other people in line waiting to check in.

I know. I thought his request was ridiculous, too. But then I thought about it, and I absolutely made him do that when he went to camps at a young age, and this transpired every time.

Teenage counselor: “What’s your name?”
Me: “What’s your name? Give him your name.”
Future Man has a blank glare.
Me: “Say your name!”
Future Man: “Future.”
Me: “Your whole name.”
Future Man: “Man.”
Me: “His name is Future Man.”

An interaction that should have taken three seconds took 15, and then the counselor got to have that same interaction with 100 other parents for 40 mornings the rest of the summer. Want to have a frustrating morning as a camp counselor? Ask for a kid’s name with a similar interaction as above, and then watch the entire thing collapse when the counselor has to try to figure out if Harrison Cooper’s first name is Harrison or Cooper when there are four other kids on the list with the last name Harrison or Cooper.

This morning I have no idea as to the whereabouts of the Blonde Bomber. She may have moved out, but many of her things are still here, so perhaps she still resides here. She might be in bed. Who knows?

For the next 10 weeks, she will provide me a twice-daily update on the UV Index. If it’s higher than an 8, she’ll be alone on the roof or at the pool with her friends. If it’s below 7, she’ll be inside because, I’m told, there is no point in going out in the sun unless it offers the highest possible chance of skin cancer.

She’s going into high school and she knows this is her last summer of unemployment. She’ll babysit here and there, but it’s not easy to get an actual job when you’re 14. I believe Publix hires baggers at her age, but I’ve seen her bring in groceries from the car, and I don’t think anyone wants her helping with their groceries considering she heaves ours onto the counter like a dead body.

When one or both of them are home during the day, I will have to yell from my home office to them to turn down the volume of the TV or put on earphones. It’s not easy to write while listening to all eight seasons of Entourage (him) or Grey’s Anatomy (her).

We used to have a summer tradition of making ice cream for breakfast on the first day of summer, but it ended a few years ago when I stopped making breakfast for them altogether. I still ask every once in a while if they want breakfast, but I get summarily rebuffed while they reach into the freezer, grab two frozen waffles and walk out the door without telling me where they’re going.

Summers aren’t nearly as eventful with teenagers. They aren’t constantly asking me to take them to the pool or wherever else. We averaged more than six days per week at the pool when they were younger — opting for evenings and dinner at the pool during the week — but no one wants to go to the pool with their dad anymore. I think I went there three times last summer by myself, all in the hopes I’d find someone else’s kid to play catch with.

Want to get some weird looks? Go to your neighborhood pool and ask two 10-year-olds if you can play catch with them.

It’s hard to leave town on weekdays when you work in the news business, so I don’t have a ton of travel planned this summer. We’ll do our usual beach trip — now 17 years running — to Seabrook Island in South Carolina. We’ll spend the week watching the kids surf and skim board. I’ll spend a few days catching crab to make my family dinner on the last night, like always.

The Mother of Dragons has her annual friends trip to Cape Cod and a family reunion that I wasn’t invited to, but wasn’t not invited to. I’m fine with that. The Blonde Bomber is going, so Future Man and I will have a brocation, which will consist of me asking him nightly if he wants to do something and me being told he has plans with his friends, whether he has them or not.

The Blonde Bomber is also going to her first sleepover camp, which should be fun to watch her and my wife prepare for. At 14 years old, she treats every night away like she’s taking an English freighter to the New World, so I expect her to depart with a steamer trunk, hat box and portmanteau.

It might sound depressing but I’m not complaining. It’s the reality of raising kids. They need you in the beginning. They enjoy hanging out with you in the middle. And toward the end, once they have wings, they don’t want to spend any time in the nest.

We were all the same way, once.

But if I’m being honest, sometimes I miss the younger days when they wanted breakfast. Wanted to go to lunch. Asked me to take them to the pool at night, and lit up when I told them we were having chili cheese hot dogs on the pool grill.

The Mother of Dragons and I will fill the summer void with dinners on the back porch, weekend hikes, and at night we’ll watch TV shows we actually want to see. I’ve seen enough episodes of The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, The Floor is Lava and talking dog movies for a lifetime.

Summer is here for the kids. A time of freedom. A time of promise.

Just a time, for the rest of us.

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Jon Show lives in Robbins Park with his wife, who he calls “The Mother of Dragons.” Their 17-year-old son is “Future Man” and their 14-year-old daughter is “The Blonde Bomber.” Their dog is actually named Lightning.