Good morning!
Hubby and I have now been empty nesters, officially, for a bit more than a year. Skippy moved out on Mother's Day last year. (The timing could have been better, admittedly, but it was sort of symbolic.)
My adjustment to being an empty nester has not been easy. I have a difficult time getting how much to make for dinner. I either make way too much, or I make nothing at all. Skippy is helping Peaches out at the bakery, so we see the eldest child at least once a week. And Peaches does laundry at the house each week, which is nice.
But Peaches is moving out of her crappy apartment into one that has a washer and drier. So she won't need laundry. And Skippy recently received a job offer that may make the move up north permanent, and full time, so no trips down here for the bakery.
We are, officially, empty nesters.
Except...
Our basement and garage are stuffed to the gills with the kids' stuff. Bin upon bin upon bin are stacked here and there and everywhere. Now, sure, we'll get the garage back after next weekend, when Peaches officially moves, but the basement....well...maybe we should start charging storage fees.
Anyway, I'm not telling you all this to complain. I love my kids. And I think of them as kids. I'm pretty sure every parent feels this way. Your kid isn't completely an adult until something...one thing...happens. It can be something big, like they have a baby. Or something bigger, like they buy a business. Or something very small, like what happened at the house a couple weeks ago.
It was a normal evening. Skippy was sleeping over because of a two-day stint at Peaches' bakery. Peaches came over for dinner, and we were having a lovely time watching "The Floor" or "Masterchef" or one of a couple dozen other shows I watch with the kids. (My biggest loss when the kids moved out is that I lost my TV buddies. Hubby doesn't like cooking competition shows as a general rule.)
Now, in all honesty, some adult beverages may have been consumed during dinner.
Like I said, though, it was a lovely evening. I hated to take a break, but nature called so I excused myself and went down the hall, did my business, washed my hands, and returned to the living room.
Not one weird thing about any of that.
Hubby is a dear, lovely man, but he does have this one habit that sometimes proves to be inconvenient for me: He likes to stop me when I'm on my way to do something in another part of the house. For instance: His office is dead in the middle of our home. When I come home from work, all I want to do is use the bathroom, change into comfy clothes, put my c-pap machine together, throw dinner in the over, and turn on the TV. It's a routine I have to do the minute I walk through the door, otherwise I lose all steam and something doesn't get done. (Usually the c-pap machine...and then I have to put it back together when I stagger into bed at 2 AM after I've fallen alseep on the couch again. Not optimal.) Now, whilst I'm on this quest to complete these tasks, I have to pass his office. And, without fail...WITHOUT FAIL...he'll call to me: "Hey, Come in here, I gotta show you something."
Usually it's something fun, like a new TV commercial his company put out. (He works for a very PROGRESSIVE company and they have a fun FLO to all their commercials.) Sometimes it's something else. But it's always a request that stops me in my tracks. Most of the time it's no big deal, but sometimes I really, really have to...get into comfy clothes. (You know how it is. Trying to drink all the water you're suppose to in a day, and much of that gets sucked down during the ride home from work and then boy howdy, who has time to watch a new commercial????) Sure, I could tell him I had to GO, but I was raised, as many of you know, to never admit I had bodily functions. It just wasn't done in my family. Yes, it's my problem more than anything, but whatever.
On a related note, if I walk back from anywhere in the house and he's sitting in his chair (which is at the crossroads of the kitchen door and the end of the hallway in our house, another centrally located spot) he'll reach out to hold my hand.
I love him and 99% of the time it's fine when his need to see me crosses paths with my need to finish some tasks. But every so often, stopping at his office is wildly inconvenient or stopping to hold his hand for a second is not optimal for what's going on with me. (Ah Menopause. Just when you thought you'd conquered Perimenopause and it was safe to rejoin the human race...)
Case in point: The last time the kids were at the house a couple weeks ago, we were watching TV, something loud, probably 'Family Feud,' and I went to use the rest room. As I mentioned, adult beverages had been consumed. I returned, having washed my hands, although they weren't quite dry.
What is that? Am I the only one who has this problem?
You use the bathroom and it doesn't seem to matter; public or private, my hands NEVER get fully dry. I mean, I can blame public restrooms because paper towel has become pointless lately and when only air driers are available, what's even the point of trying? (Years ago, when we were new members in our church, I had wet hands after using the ladies' room and wound up shaking hands with the pastor. I maintain it's his fault for insisting on shaking everyone's hand that day.) But at home...still the same problem. Either the hand towel is wet already and is useless or my hands just don't get dry. Do I have some kind of disability that makes it impossible to get my hands fully dry after washing?
Don't judge me.
Anyway, after using the restroom and washing my hands, I returned to the family. But I had to pass by Hubby's chair. He reached out and grabbed my hand.
This is really kind of his fault, right?
Anway, so he grabs my hand and then says, "Ew...why is your hand wet?"
"I just used the bathroom and washed my hands."
Hubby pulls his hand away from mine and stares at it. "Why is it sticky?"
Oh yeah, I may, or may not, have failed in rinsing all the soap off my hands. Like I said, adult beverages.
Again, don't judge me.
"I washed my hands. Maybe I didn't rinse them fully." I said defensively, wiping my hands on my pants.
At that moment, Peaches and Skippy were both laughing, paused, looked at us as Hubby continued to announce the state of his hand after contact with mine. And Skippy let out a "oh my god" and they both laughed harder. That's when I realized my kids were adults. They were laughing at us, not because we are the parents and we told some dumb Gen X joke or Dad joke and they gave us a courtesy laugh. This was more like four grown-ups sitting in a room laughing with each other.
So yeah, your kids can move away, they can graduate college, they can get married, buy a house, have babies, get jobs, buy businesses, all of that. But they are not truly, truly adults in a parent's eye until they share a laugh at something small, something every day, with you.
In the meantime, can we just make a rule that there's no hand contact for at least five minutes after someone's washed their hands?
