We’re barely 30 days out from the day our youngest child moved away from home, and my Gentleman Friend and I are still rattling around, trying to find our groove.
We knew this day would come, when we no longer lived with dependent children, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that we had no idea what that really entailed. We have both been hopelessly knocked off our game.
Each day, like out-of-sync dance partners, we desperately search to get our rhythm back, doing our best not to step on each other’s toes. But it’s become increasingly clear that this is going to take a while. We have a lot of habits to unlearn.
For one thing, I thought I’d be going grocery shopping a lot less. Less mouths to feed, am I right? Instead, I go even more often, maybe partly because I’m bored, or partly because I have no idea how to cook for two people. I even picked up a magazine: Cooking for Two, to get help adjusting portions. I made a salmon recipe that took too long to make. My husband ate his “just right” portion in 5.7 seconds, after which he was still hungry. On another night, I made a cauldron of soup for only the two of us, thinking we’d enjoy the leftovers…but neither of us were interested in having that many soup nights in a row. I’m starting to wonder if it’s even worth it, cooking for two people. Can’t we just get takeout?
In a house of six people with one bathroom, we knew to loudly announce, “I’m going to take a shower. Does anyone need to get into the bathroom before I start?” But this is no longer necessary, and I still occasionally forget that taking a shower isn’t front page news anymore.
There are no complicated carpools to coordinate. The car is always available when I need it. If I want to go somewhere, I get in my car, simple as that. It doesn’t matter what day of the week or time of day it is, who’s working what shift at the coffee shop or who has rehearsal after school. I know exactly where my keys are because nobody forgot to return them. There are no wrappers or rogue napkins left beneath the car seats. For nostalgia’s sake, perhaps I’ll stuff a few wrappers between the car seats. Something brightly colored that bears the faint smell of chocolate.
I no longer ascribe strange noises in the house to “the kids.” Random bumps or creaks in the house barely registered notice. For the past 30 days, however, I am convinced that a clumsy, unmotivated murderer lives in my basement. I can’t even blame the dog — he never wanders more than a few feet away from my side.
How often should I run the dishwasher? It no longer fills up once a day. Now, my choices are to run it slightly empty — the top rack and bottom rack never fill up at the same rate, it seems — or wait until it’s full. By that time the bits of food have solidified and become one with the dishes. I can’t win.
There is still just as much laundry as there was when the kids were home. I don’t understand this phenomenon, but it’s true. Laundry regenerates infinitely, just like dirty dishes. I have no scientific research to back this up. Just take my word for it.
All those pesky chores I used to pawn off — I mean, assign — to my children? They’re my job now. I try to trick my husband into doing them, but he’s not taking the bait. The kids were much more gullible.
Sundays are for phone calls. It’s delightful. In the throes of motherhood, I didn’t have time for long phone calls. Now, I settle into a comfy spot and happily chat with my kids until my phone starts to overheat.
I see parents of young children who look tired and pushed to the limit and I want to give them all a hug and tell them that they’re doing a great job. Maybe I wouldn’t have liked it if strangers did that to me when I had the littles, but I suspect I would’ve appreciated it very, very much. Parenthood breeds self-doubt. Endless, like laundry and dishes.
