Singing the Kids-Are-Bored Summertime Blues Again

Ask a child in the midst of an evening’s worth of homework what she’d like to do during summer vacation, and the answer is certain and clear: Nothing. (Translation: No camps or classes. Just sleep, snacks and plenty of TV.)

But the moment the school year ends, “nothing” is apt to be replaced with alarming alacrity by the phrase that makes parents cringe: “I’m bored.”

This year, school was out for less than 24 hours before my 11-year-old threw down the gauntlet. She was bored with the computer, the pool, the video games. She had no one to play with. She’d read all the books she cared to read. She’d worn out the remote control and found nothing worth watching on TV.

There’s nothing to do around here, she whined. Could you maybe take me to the mall?

But I’m not biting this time around. I’ve spent so many years trying to fill my kids’ summers with stimulation and fun, I’m bored with that game ... and tired, to boot.

Somebody’s looking for something to do? The flower beds out front need weeding. The dogs haven’t been walked or fed. The rabbit’s cage is overdue for a cleaning. There’s a laundry basket full of towels that need folding and socks that need mates.

Surprise, surprise....She retreats to the TV room. Suddenly Jenny Jones’ “Extreme Makeovers” and “Men Caught Hiring Hit Men” on Montel Williams’ show seem a bit more interesting after all.

It’s easy to feel frustrated by the complaints of a pampered child with the luxury of a string of empty days. When I was young, doing what my kids consider “nothing” for an entire summer was an acceptable alternative ... and sometimes the only choice we had.

Stop me if you’ve heard this before, but there were no computers or videos or cable TV; no instant messages or homemade CDs. We didn’t have a swimming pool or air-conditioning, so when we wanted a respite from the heat, we rode our bikes to the library. We slept late in the morning, stayed out after dark and spent our afternoons in someone’s basement, playing card games or querying the Ouija board or creating dance routines that we’d later perform.

Summer was a time of independence, when we could set our own schedules and make our own choices, because there was nothing we had to do, no place we were required to be. Parents, if they were around at all, existed on the periphery, setting up the Slip ‘n Slide, making Kool-Aid and sandwiches, pulling splinters out of bare feet and painting Mercurochrome on skinned knees.

Today, the lack of direction we displayed would be considered aimlessness. And we’re afraid to give our children that kind of freedom, lest unwise choices waste valuable time. “We encourage you to fill your summer with lots of reading,” says the note that came home from my daughter’s school, with a list of books to be read before September, and five pages of suggested titles that would “enrich” our family’s life.

I’ve noticed that hardly a day passes when the mailbox doesn’t yield a brochure for a summer camp or class that will “enrich, advance and challenge your child.” Even the family trip--done right--now seems to require inordinate planning, given that “summer travel provides many opportunities for using the math skills that children have learned ... [and] can also be a time to write journal impressions.”

Family vacations must be “managed,” a parents’ magazine advises, if they are to be successful: Don’t pack too much into a single day, because that can create tension. Plan “alone time” for each family member and accommodate individual needs for rest and relaxation. Recognize that children might feel bored because they’re deprived of their favorite TV shows or friends.

In other words, we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. Try to cure their boredom with a family trip, and your kids will whine about missing their friends.

My daughter’s in her pajamas when I get home, though it’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon. Her feet are dirty, her face smudged with chocolate, her hair is damp and still uncombed. All around me I see evidence of the “boring” day she must have had.

In the backyard, the hose has been tied in a circle and slung over the fence and into the pool. Rock climbing, her big sister and baby-sitter explain. She tied the hose around her waist, pretended she was trapped beneath a waterfall and rappelled up the side of the pool in a series of dramatic rescue efforts.

Inside, the dog is wearing a scarf and his fur is tied back in a ponytail. Arranged on his bed are a blanket, a book and a sippy cup. He was the baby, I imagine, and my daughter read to him then tried to put him to bed.

In her bedroom, I find two rows of Beanie Babies lined up in front of a blackboard, with the days of the week neatly written out in Spanish. School, not much different from the way my sister and I used to play it.

The rest of her day I can figure out. The basketball by the front door. The grimy socks next to the trampoline. The patio littered with candy wrappers, empty juice boxes and dogeared magazines. The wet swimsuit on the bathroom floor.

It makes me tired just reconstructing her day’s routine ... tired enough that all I can do is smile when she wanders over and looks at me expectantly. “I’m glad you’re home,” she says. “I’m bored.”

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Sandy Banks’ column is published Sundays and Tuesdays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes. com.