13 Is the New 18 (29 page)

“Don't you remember, they talked about it so much that you just wanted to punch them?” she said.

It was true, I did remember that, and it cheered me up to think about it. Maybe Sport would love camp just like all those girls I'd known when I was a kid.

Indeed, when Sport finally did get home, it was clear he'd had a terrific time. He talked for an hour straight about all the fun things they did— jumping in the lake, archery, sleeping in the woods, s'mores.

And just like Linda had predicted, I kind of wanted to punch him. How dare he have such a good time without me?

Finally, I said, “Didn't anything bad happen at camp? Did you ever get in trouble for anything?

He looked at me ominously. “What happens in camp,” he said, “stays in camp.” He would say no more on the subject.

While Sport was away I decided to take two weeks off from all household duties. I wasn't making dinner for anyone, or getting anyone a sandwich, or doing the laundry, or taking out the garbage. Within three days, the garbage was overflowing and we were out of toilet paper and milk.

And by the time Elon had done his third load of laundry, he was muttering under his breath that it was time Taz learned to do his Own Goddamn Laundry.

One night Elon and Taz spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to cook a Hot Pocket. I had made myself a beautiful salad, and I was washing it down with a nice tall glass of seltzer when I overheard their discussion.

“It says here to microwave it two to three minutes,” Taz said. “Well, which is it? Two or three?”

“I don't know,” said Elon, “but apparently we also need to use the crisping tray. What the heck is a crisping tray?”

One night while Sport was at camp, Taz took the train to his cousin's house on Long Island, where he planned to sleep over. It had been a long time since Elon and I had been alone together in our house, and we found ourselves at sixes and sevens. We hung around doing not much of anything, freaked the dog out by
walking her together, which we never do, and decided around midnight that we were hungry. I hadn't made dinner, in keeping with my pledge, and Elon had decided that Hot Pockets were revolting.

We debated whether there was any place in our neighborhood open at that hour to eat. We had lived here for fifteen years, but we didn't know the answer, because we had never been out at midnight in all these years. We were always home with our kids.

We hopped in the car, drove down to the main drag in our neighborhood, where I usually see the CONY hanging out, and were astonished to see lots of places open at midnight, all filled with grown- ups— and no kids. We found a new burger place that we'd somehow missed the opening of. It was loud and fun and the food was fine.

We realized as we were eating that the dog had never been left home alone at this hour before; she must have be wondering what the hell was going on.

What's going on, Buddy, is that the kids are gone and we remembered how to have a life without them.

As long as we are still responsible for our children, we will take to heart the immortal words of Calvin Trillin, who is not exactly Dr. Spock or anything, but who wrote in a tribute to his late wife that they had agreed on a simple notion early on in raising their daughters:

“Your children are either the center of your life or they're not, and the rest is commentary.”

But this rare night out was a preview of the day when they wouldn't be the center of our lives. They'd be gone and grown up. And then what?

Some friends with empty nests have gone back to school and started new careers as teachers and social workers, or gotten the master's and doctoral degrees they'd long dreamed of but hadn't had the energy to do when they were still running around to Little League games and PTA meetings.

A neighbor devoted herself to volunteering in a school in a poor neighborhood, and got everyone else on our block to donate their kids’ used books to the library there. Another woman I know who still has a few more years of child rearing ahead of her fantasizes about just being a lazy bum— sitting in front of the TV every night without anybody asking her when's dinner or did you know we are out of paper towels. A lot of women I know get a puppy— I guess because they miss having something sweet and cuddly and messy to love.

The problem, I realized, was that for all the exhaustion and obsessions that come with being a mother, these two boys were about the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me. Even when they were driving me crazy, even when I wanted to kill Taz because of some dreadful thing he'd done, at least I was never saying, “What is the meaning of life? Why am I on this earth?” As long as there was a diaper to be changed or a meal to be cooked or a times table to be learned or a school trip to accompany, I had a purpose.

But now that Taz was fourteen, I could see more clearly that this purpose would eventually come to an end. Sure, I had a few more years ahead of me with Sport, but he was going to be fourteen before I knew it. And then what? Would I be trying to get the dog to play Monopoly with me?

In the meantime, if I'm feeling wistful for the days when Taz was younger, I can always call his cell phone. You see, with part of the money he earned at the day camp, he bought a new phone to replace the one that went in the toilet. He got his old number back, too, and even had his old message reconnected.

I'm glad, because now I can track him down when he's out chillin’. And if he chooses not to answer, that's OK, too. Because if he doesn't pick up, I get to hear that little squeaky voice from long ago on the message, and it reminds me of the days before he turned thirteen:

“Yo, whaddup, it's Taz!”