That last week of school—counting down the hours until freedom, the smell of fresh-cut grass, sunscreen, and the faint hope you’d get a tan before July. It’s a vibe that never quite leaves, no matter how grown up (or sunburn-prone) you get. For episode 66, we’re diving into the nostalgia, chaos, and pop culture of summer break—then vs. now.
Was Summer Break Always This Messy?
We always assumed summer break was invented so kids could work the family farm. Turns out… nope. In the 19th century, kids in cities got summer off because their schools were too hot—no AC, just sweat and daydreams. (Rural kids? Year-round school. Sorry, Little House on the Prairie.)
Today, America still leads the way with a full three months off. Most countries cap summer break at six to eight weeks. Is it good? Bad? Depends on if you’re a parent trying to line up 12 weeks of childcare, or a kid desperate to ride your bike until the streetlights come on.
The Evolution of Summer Break:
Elementary school: Think sticky popsicles, reading Babysitters’ Club on the deck, backyard baseball, and maybe a sunburn from that “just baby oil” SPF hack (Jenni…).
Middle & junior high: Peak freedom. Sleepovers, pool hopping, first concerts, way too many “mom, can I sleep in the tent tonight?” requests.
High school: Late-night drives, awkward jobs, and the thrilling/terrifying realization you’re sort of in charge of your life.
How Parenting Changed Summer
Here’s the twist: Gen X and elder millennial parents had all the freedom (and “don’t come home until dinner!” autonomy) but now, we’re the ones scheduling every minute and tracking our kids on GPS. Fun fact: In 1975, 83% of American kids could roam the neighborhood unsupervised. In 2020? Less than 10%. Blame it on “stranger danger,” constant organized activities, or the slow creep of parenting anxiety. Our take: let’s bring back a little healthy chaos.
School’s Out: The Best Summer Movies
Cue the soundtrack and roll the montage. We go all-in on our favorite “school’s out” and summer break movies, including:
Now and Then (iconic girlhood, smoky bike rides, and Brendan Fraser handing out life lessons)
Stand By Me (“Nothing like a smoke after a meal,” and definitely not enough adult supervision)
Dazed and Confused (hazing, party prep, and the most iconic “Alright, alright, alright”)
The Sandlot (pickleball, fireworks, and the one kid who moved in after school got out)
Grease (does any movie capture that last-day-of-school feeling better?)
The Way Way Back, Heavyweights, Camp Nowhere, Dirty Dancing, American Pie 2—plus honorable mentions for every family who spent a summer at the lake or a questionable summer job.
Summer Nostalgia: The Soundtrack
What’s a summer without a song on repeat? We run through every Billboard “Song of the Summer” from 1999 to 2024, from Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca” to Party Rock Anthem, Blurred Lines, Despacito, and the most recent earworms. Is there an official “Song of Summer”? Yes—Billboard uses radio play, streams, and sales from Memorial Day to Labor Day to declare the champion, but let’s be honest, it’s all about the vibes. Our hot takes might not match the charts, but we dare you not to start dancing.
Summer Parenting Today
Do kids still have magical, messy summers? Or is it all schedules, carpool, and $400 travel jerseys? We share our real experiences (and a few rants), with Jenni championing rec league soccer and Tim taking aim at the youth sports industrial complex. Spoiler: neighborhood games and lazy afternoons > ten weekends of “tournament play.”
Drops, Laughs, and “Mystical Magical”
This episode is loaded with throwback sound drops—from Now and Then and Stand By Me to the truly awkward ‘90s dancefloor anthem “Too Close.” Plus, our official declaration of Benson Boone’s “Mystical Magical” as the early contender for Song of Summer 2025 (fight us).
Let’s Get Messy
School’s out, the sun’s out, and we’re here for all the nostalgia, music, movie magic, and real talk on modern parenting. Tell us your favorite school’s out movie, your personal song of summer, or how your summer break memories stack up to today’s reality.
Hit play, drop a comment, and subscribe for more. The Kids Are In Bed, but summer is just getting started.
“Daddy, this is so much fun,” my daughter, Clementine, said, breathing heavily as we climbed the 49 steps to the top of the water slide.
Yes. I counted them. Mind your business.
Midway through the summer, my wife, Jenni, and I discussed keeping the kids home from daycare before school started.
The prospect of saving money by not having them in daycare was more than enough to get me interested.
If you don’t have kids or don’t live in, well, the United States of America, you may be wondering, what does it cost each week to have a five—and eight-year-old attend daycare in the summer?
$484.19.
I know that number by heart, and writing it still takes my breath away.
Jenni’s primary concern, however, had little to do with our money.
“I just think it’s a great opportunity for you to spend time with the kids since you might not have free time like this again.”
I guess staring at a blank screen, hoping for inspiration to strike, counts as free time these days…
We decided to give the kids some extra fun in the last week of summer before school.
Cha-ching.
“It’s a good opportunity to adjust our bedtime so we are in a better routine when school actually starts,” I suggested to my wife one evening while feeling incredibly confident about my parenting ability.
Ah, the lies we tell ourselves.
On the recommendation of my eight-year-old son, Jude, I decided we would go to Summerland Family Fun Park. He had been there on a summer field trip, and he assured me Clementine would love it. The park has a waterslide, go-karts, mini-golf, and bumper boats, all run by teenagers who, for the most part, seemed unconcerned with park rules.
You’ve seen it before. It’s the place where you say, “Maybe next time,” to your kids when you drive by it on the highway.
A quick Google search showed me that admission to the park was $7.50, so I figured it’d be perfect for the hottest day in August.
Once inside, it was clear the admission fee was a bait-and-switch – everything was a la carte.
I stood looking at the prices for all the activities, attempting to do the quick math, when my wife’s voice popped into my head like a guardian angel.
“You’re not in a rush,” her angelic voice rang in my head.
I must’ve blacked out because the next thing I knew, I was tapping my credit card to pay $148.89. Not bad for three hours of fun, right? Right?! But it’s not just the price. Every tap of the card feels like a trade-off, a decision about where to invest these fleeting moments. Before they’re too old to want to go on water slides with me, time with my kids makes a hundred and fifty bucks feel insignificant.
We walked into the park, $335.30 in the black, and found a table for our things.
Whenever I take my kids to fun places alone, I can’t shake the feeling people think I’m a divorced Dad.Sonaturally, I am forced to overcompensate.
“Mommy is going to be so proud of me when we get home to her,” I said in a raised voice to my kids as I slathered them with sunscreen.
It’s funny how our insecurities come out to play sometimes.
Putting sunscreen on kids at the bottom of a waterslide is like trying to keep two cats in a bathtub. I wanted to ensure I was with Clementine before she got near the water since she is a new swimmer and because, well, she’s my baby girl who needs me by her side.
“Do you want to go down together for the first time?” I asked her as we climbed the steps to the top of the slide.
“No, thanks,” she said, running ahead of me up the stairs, utterly sure of herself.
Since Jude was first in line, I told him to wait for Clementine at the bottom to ensure she got to the pool’s stairs okay.
When the lifeguard gave her the all-clear, Clementine looked at me. She wasn’t asking for permission – just checking on me.
“All good?” I asked with a smile.
She gave me her trademark thumbs-up and wink before launching herself down the waterslide. My heart swelled with pride at her bravery.
I waited at the top, watching her shoot out of the bottom. Of course, she made it to the stairs like she’d done it a thousand times before.
I stepped up and went down the slide to catch up with her.
If you haven’t been on a waterslide lately, do it. I promise you can’t make it down without smiling or feeling that burst of joy in your chest.
As I came around the final corner of the water slide, my adorable baby girl sat in the water on the pool steps, waiting for me. Her face lit up with a smile from ear to ear, and a faint pang of recognition hit me square in the chest.
My daughter looked familiar, but not just because she carries half of my DNA. It was different, like when a stranger’s face catches your eye at a crowded event, and for a second, they seem like someone you know. However, after you let your gaze hold for a moment, the recognition slips through your fingertips like trying to remember a dream.
We went down that slide a hundred more times, and every trip up the stairs, she couldn’t stop talking about the fun:
“Daddy, this is so much fun.”
“This is the best waterslide ever.”
“You’re the best Daddy.”
“This is the best waterslide ever.”
“I love going down the waterslide with you.”
“Who built this waterslide? Because they did a really good job.”
With every burst of joy she shared, I felt that familiar pang in my chest again, like something I was on the verge of understanding. I shook it off as an odd case of Deja Vu.
As we left the park, hot and exhausted, I silently thanked Jenni. She was right. Those three hours at the park riding waterslides, playing mini golf, and riding go-karts were reason enough to keep them home for the week.
A few days later, walking from our tailgate at the first Minnesota Gophers football game of the season, soaked from the rain, I snapped some candid shots of Clementine, expecting her usual cute smile in her Gopher cheerleader outfit.
Instead, I got a runway model attitude and strut, which made her look ten years older.
There’s that pang again, I thought as I snapped pictures.
When the photoshoot concluded, I looked at the pictures, hoping for a clue as to what had brought that odd feeling of familiarity, but I came up with nothing.
On her first day of Kindergarten, her joy was infectious. It reminded me of how I used to feel on the first day of school – that Christmas morning vibe full of unknowns and endless possibilities.
From the moment she came downstairs in her orange-patterned dress (Get it? Because her name is Clementine), the pang in my chest lingered until we watched her walk into school.
If reincarnation were my thing, I’d swear that pang meant I knew her in another life.
Of course, I spent my morning crying as I worried about her being lonely, or homesick, or scared, or nervous, or, or, or…
When she got off the bus, I realized all my tears and worries were for nothing. The pang in my chest returned as she smiled and waved, but this time, it felt more real. Less like a fleeting dream, more like a name you can’t quite get off the tip of your tongue.
On her second day of Kindergarten, we were a little more rushed to get out in time for the bus.
Jenni and I followed our children, backpacks bouncing on their shoulders, out into the cool September morning air to wait for the bus.
We expected the kids to stop and wait with us on the step, just like the first day. The third grader, Jude, didn’t want to do that, so he gestured for his little sister to follow him to the bus stop. He didn’t do it impatiently; he did it with the calm confidence of the stellar big brother he’s been for the past five and a half years.
Tears start to sting my eyes.
Clementine didn’t think twice. She walked right past as I said, “Alright, have a great second day of Kindergarten, baby girl.”
“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Jenni said, looking at me with mock anguish.
And just like that, I understood the pang – like solving a riddle, it suddenly seemed so obvious. The feeling of familiarity was no longer a mystery.
The source of that familiarity stood right next to me as we watched our kids walk to the bus stop.
My daughter’s smile, enthusiasm, confidence, and bravery are the same things I fell in love with when I was fifteen.
Tears fell as I saw Jenni’s reflection in our daughter. But unlike her first day, only a few tears fell this time, I knew there was nothing to worry about. She got the good stuff from my wife—the magic.
The magic of a little girl who knows there are no limits to what she can do – not because she’s told, but because her mother shows her how to be undeniable.
Her answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” says it all.
“A firefighter, construction worker, dancer, swimmer, and fashion model.”
She’ll be busy, but I have no doubt she’ll do it all.
You shouldn’t either.
Cheers.
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In honor of the first sun burn of the year that I obtained on Saturday…
My skin is terrible. I will get a sun burn at the least likely of times and the most obvious times, I know this. However, even at thirty, I can’t remember to put sunscreen on myself and prevent the inevitable pain. Instead, I go golfing on a Saturday in May and since it is a little chilly out I assume that I will be okay without applying sunscreen.
I have no excuse. Sunscreen companies have made it beyond easy with the spray on application. I just never seem to learn. Even when I make a concerted effort to apply as instructed I get burned (that, ladies & gents, is a pun).
July 4th, 2000-something.
It could not have been a more perfect day. As I woke up, I had two goals –
1. Drink enough to forget the day ever happened.
2. Do not get sunburned.
Lucky enough to have generous friends allow us to have fun at their home on Gull Lake in Nisswa, MN. Everything was falling in place for an amazing holiday.
Armed with two spray cans of SPF 30 and a case of Bud Light, ready to achieve my daily goals, I made my way to the dock (where I would spend the next 8 hours).
As I opened my first beer, I applied the first coat of protection.
Normally, the road block that I cannot avoid is achieving a heightened level of inebriation that causes me to forget to apply the second, third, fourth (and so on) coat.
Not today my friends.
On this day I would not be stopped. I found a comfortable spot on the bench built on the dock. I had easy access to the cooler and promptly applied the second coat as I cracked open Bud Light number four.
As fate would have it, on this very day my parents happened to be touring the lake in a boat with some of their friends and were nice enough to swing by the dock and say hello. The conversations were brief, but it was great to see them none the less.
As their boat pulled away my mother shouted, “Timmaaayyy, don’t forget sunscreen!”
It’s amazing that even in my mid to late twenties she could still find a way to give my friends material with which to make fun of me.
This turned out to be a blessing in disguise. As the rest of the day was filled with my friend’s exaggerated impressions of my mother’s screamed advice.
Advantage Timmy.
Open beer eight, apply third coat. Open beer 12, apply fourth coat… you get the idea. My goals were being achieved and it was glorious.
As the sun began it’s slow, defeated descent to the horizon, I began my standard self assessment of sun burn. Nose – looking good. Arms – is that a tan? Legs – milky white as the driven snow. Neck – good.
Even my ears aren’t burned.
This certainly meant that I would reward my outstanding performance with numerous beers next to the evening camp fire.
As I changed into jeans, sweatshirt and shoes, I couldn’t help but be proud of myself.
That was easy. I’ll never get sunburned again.
I walked up to the fire, beer in hand, and joined my friends.
Suddenly, it felt as though my feet were on fire.
I am wearing shoes, why are my feet so hot?
I am a reasonable distance from the fire. And, after a quick concentrated assessment, they are not on fire…
Then it hit me. The tidal wave of anxiety crashed into my chest (you know the feeling you get when you have forgotten to do something very important? Yeah, that).
Mentally I was tracing through all of the sunscreen applications through out the day as my mom’s voice echoed in my head, “Timmaaayyy, don’t forget sunscreen!”
I forgot about the tops of my feet.
I had been sitting on the dock all day with the my bare feet exposed to the sun like the uncooked side of a pancake. To this point in their existence, my feet had been exposed to maybe a total of 12 hours of direct sun light. This day, I gave them an uninterrupted 8 hours of bright, unmerciful July sunlight.
If you have been sunburned before, you are familiar with this stage. Your skin is warm and a tad uncomfortable but not painful, yet. But you know the pain is coming.
Well, I could see the pain coming at me like a locomotive without brakes and I was tied to the tracks.
I have one option.
Drink beer. Lots of beer. Natures pain-killer (kind of). I dumped beer after beer down my gullet until I forgot about my feet, the sunburn and where I was.
Morning.
This is going to be bad.
I was staring at the ceiling, my throbbing feet felt radio-active as I did my best not to move them.
I had to see the damage. Slowly, I pulled my feet out from under the sheets that felt like they were made out of sand paper and thorns.
I thought I was going to cry. It looked like someone had held hot frying pans to the tops of both my feet. Next, I set both of them on the floor, the blood began to rush and pulsate so that it seemed that my feet were going to explode.
When I am sun burned, what I hate more than anything is when people comment on how bad my sun burn is. Do you think that I don’t feel it? Are you trying to be a jerk? Are you a sadist that wants to remind me of the constant pain that I am in? Or, are you just making small talk?
That being said, I had a new goal for the day –
1. Put socks on.
Two options: slow and steady, or, quick like a band-aid. Because I am an adventurous chap, I tried each. And, I’ll tell ya, neither were very pleasant.
Once I made it home to Maple Grove, I began applying all forms of aloe vera and solarcaine. The next morning I woke to noticeably swollen feet. They looked like a cartoon character’s feet that had been smashed with a giant mallet.
As I was getting ready for work, I was forced to lube my feet with aloe and solarcaine to put my socks on. Then jam my fat, swollen feet into loafers.
Every step felt like razor blades on the top of my feet.
Over the next couple of days the pain began to subside and slowly, my feet began to heal and peel until soon the burn was just a distant, agonizing memory.
You would think that I learned my lesson, right? Nope. I continue to get burned because I am either absent-minded, unprepared or drunk (usually a combination of all three). I am getting better and I know that I need to get much better for my own health and I really do try to remember… but dammit no one else ever seems to be putting on sunscreen. What’s the deal with you people? You never have it when I forget it. You are never putting it on when I could use a reminder about putting some on. Then, you all sit around and complain that you need a tan. Boo-fucking-hoo.
Moral of the story: if you see me and I am sun burned, you don’t need to tell me. I can feel it. With every subtle movement, ray of sunshine, or light brush against even the softest of fabrics… I can feel it.
And, you can bet that everyone that I work with has already chuckled and said, “someone got some sun this weekend!”
