Before my youngest went off to college, I had been an active parent for 32 years. I had children living at home for whom I cooked, cleaned up after, and searched bedrooms and tv rooms for lost plates and silverware. I had to find ways to entertain them and keep them from terrorizing each other. I had to sign permission slips, go to meet-the-teacher nights, conferences, and worry about curfews, dating, birth control, make sure I knew where they were, and… if they were being stupid, were they at least being smart about it?
When my youngest started his junior year of high school, my husband started counting down the months until we could indulge in “Pantsless Tuesdays.” This husband-made weekly holiday symbolized the freedom of being able to move around our house doing whatever we wanted, in whatever semblance of dress or undress fit our mood at the moment, without having to worry about the children.
When the day came that my youngest went to college and my second youngest got his own place, the pants came off. There were no longer stacks of dishes in the sink. I didn’t have to go searching bedrooms for forks and spoons so we could eat dinner. If I put the scissors in the drawer, that’s exactly where they were the next time I needed them. And any time my husband went into his workroom, there was no more swearing heard through the vents because he couldn’t find whatever tool he was looking for because it hadn’t been put back.
For about a month or two, it was great. If my husband and I wanted to go out for dinner, we just left. I didn’t have to make sure there was food for the kids before we went, and there was no guilt about going without them. We could come home, have a couple of cocktails, and kiss on the couch without having to peek over our shoulders to make sure no one was around. There were no doors to listen for, no footsteps. It was “Pantsless Tuesday” every day!
But the win didn’t come without its losses. There are no more daily hugs; no good night hugs, hugs because I want a hug, hugs because they’re sad or struggling, hugs because they want one, or at least offer one. There’s no one to bake cookies for or make a favorite dinner for. All of my dishes and silverware are present and accounted for. And when I do laundry, the cavernous machine is only half full, mocking me for missing my kids’ forgotten loads of stinky sour clothes they’d left in the washer for days.
There are no more kid sightings, no messy-headed kids sleeping until noon, coming out of their bedrooms on the weekend for snacks, only to take more of the dishes into their rooms. There are no extra hands to help bring the groceries in or take the garbage to the curb. There are no more extra voices at the dinner table talking about their day. There’s no one to play “High Low” with, our daily check-in game. I no longer know how their day is going. I don’t know if they’re excited about something or if someone broke their heart.
Pantsless Tuesdays means I’m sitting on the sidelines of their lives.
I know the goal is to raise healthy, self-sustaining, productive members of society. I know their independence and ability to take care of their own lives is how it should be, but I miss them. After 32 years of being an active parent, I’m finding the freedom of Pantsless Tuesdays is a bit lonely. They call and text multiple times a week, but it’s not the same.
Life is ever-changing, and this is one of those moments where rather than looking at the glass as half empty or half full, I’m going to be grateful that I have a glass. When they come home and visit, I’m going to absorb those moments and let them fill the lonely places in my heart. I’m going to savor every hug, conversation, misplaced item, and missing piece of silverware. I’m going to rejoice in who they’re becoming and soak up their energy. I will relish in the stories they share and soak up every ounce of their beings. Perhaps in these visits, I will gorge myself so full of their energy and presence that my pants will become tight, and I will long for a Pantsless Tuesday.
That is, at least, until the house is quiet, I have all of my silverware, and I’m longing to see a messy sleepyhead peeking out of a bedroom.
One Year of Letters 