I love having adult children. They’re like the grown-up versions of those little people who used to live in my house, but with jobs and their own mortgages.
My Children Are Now My Friends
I count my two adult sons and their wives among my closest friends. We share laughs, beers, and play games that are much more exciting than Candyland. But when my younger friends post online about how many years they have “left” with their school-aged, live-in children, I inwardly cringe at their fleeting ignorance.
I keep my opinions to myself. They don’t want my sage advice, nor do they realize how much they don’t know they don’t know. Their melancholy attitude just makes me smile because it reminds me of my own blissful ignorance back in the day.
But I Have a Secret
I’m glad that I keep my mouth shut around these young parents, however, because I have a secret. It’s not a very big secret, and I’ll bet many of you don’t even consider it worth writing about, but something happened recently that made me realize what I didn’t know I didn’t know.
That Basement Space
You must first understand that I am a typical empty nester, slowly transforming my children’s bedrooms into a guest room and an office. The process is like a slow-motion remodeling show on HGTV. However, there is one space in my home that I’ve been hiding from the world until now.
Growing up, my two boys had an amazing basement toy room. I’d like to say they had an idyllic childhood, but I’m sure they could come up with more than one story to challenge that notion. But that toy room! It was filled with the best stuff an elementary teacher and a naturalist could afford: Legos, Thomas the Tank Engine sets, Lincoln Logs, homemade wooden building blocks, tubs of figurines, books, and stacks of games.
Since this space was tucked away downstairs, I rarely insisted that the boys put anything away. They decided when and if they needed to clean up the toys. What a dream!
What Could Be So Secret About a Basement Toy Room?
Even before retiring, I made an attempt to turn the space into my yoga studio, with mats, candles, and inspirational pictures hung on the walls. But all the toys and books from my two boys’ childhoods are still there, now neatly arranged on the shelves with many Lego builds decorating the space. It’s like Pompeii without the ash.
I tell myself I am hanging on to these items so that we can sell them for millions, or the boys can store them in the larger houses they buy someday. Maybe there will be future grandchildren who will be thrilled with such vintage playthings. But here’s the secret: I miss my little boys.
I’ve Been Hiding from the Truth
The young moms are right. They just don’t know that being a mom isn’t over when your kids become grownups. The bond doesn’t dissolve once they get their driver’s licenses or move out. It just evolves. But as an important public service announcement, hopefully, your adult kiddos aren’t now LIVING in your basement. That’s a whole different dynamic – one that includes increased grocery bills and the reappearance of mysterious laundry piles.
The Something
Now for “the something” that happened to make me realize this. My 32-year-old son, Michael, and his wife came over for dinner. As we were cooking, sipping adult beverages, and chatting about the week, Michael wandered down to the basement.
When dinner was ready, I went to fetch him. I stood on the stairs staring down at my son, who was transfixed by a huge Lego battleship that still held a place of honor on the top of the child-sized bookcase.
My son had taken down a large bin of Legos, and he knelt, digging around until he found the piece he needed. He snapped the missing ship’s piece in place with a satisfying click. I saw the 9-year-old Michael as clearly as if he were that age again. I looked at him and said, “What are you doing?”
“Just looking,” he said.
He turned, looked up at me, staring at him from the stairs, and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Just looking,” I said, but I turned my head so he couldn’t see the tear rolling down my face.
Let’s Start a Conversation:
Do you have an experience with your adult child(ren) that triggered such vivid memories of them as littles? What do you miss? What DON’T you miss? Do you sometimes lose patience with young parents by the way they parent, or do you see new wisdom in their methods?
