It becomes more and more obvious every day, every month, every year, that I am no longer a mom of children.
I think it first hit me when I heard someone talking about Bluey and I had no idea what they were going on about. For years, I knew the Nick Jr., PBS Kids, and Disney lineups: “Yo Gabba Gabba,” “Doc McStuffins,” “Martha Speaks.” (I could go on, but it would reveal too much about my kids’ level of screen time.) But Bluey? Never heard of it. It just wasn’t relevant anymore (which is kind of a bummer because from what I understand, “Bluey” is actually a pretty great show).
Then I realized my kids no longer needed babysitters … then they were the babysitters.
Then my weekends suddenly freed up; I was no longer spending several hours every Saturday and Sunday at Storyland or the zoo or the Children’s Museum or various trampoline/bowling/mini golf/laser tag venues. My services were needed only to transport my kids around the city and bankroll their activities.
My older daughter went off to college last fall — the ultimate sign that your child is no longer a child — but I still maintained some level of denial because my younger daughter was attending a PK-8 school, and so I still got the schoolwide emails about Cookies with Santa and the Easter egg hunt and the family movie night.
But in the waning days of May, she both turned another year older and officially graduated middle school. She will be headed to high school in the fall, and my older daughter will turn 20 in December, meaning I can’t even say I have two teenagers anymore.
I know, intellectually, that this is how it is supposed to go. The entire point of parenting is to slowly, carefully work yourself out of a job. You spend years teaching them how to tie shoes and ride bikes and remember assignments and advocate for themselves and make doctor appointments and apologize sincerely and fold towels correctly, only to wake up one day and realize they can do almost all of it without you. Some things, like parallel parking and packing for vacation and whistling, they can do way better than I do.
Of course, my daughters are still the primary focus of my life. I’m still offering (solicited or not) advice about their choices and reminding them (needed or not) to take ibuprofen with food and not to use dryer sheets on the towels because it makes them less absorbent and to wash the fruits and veggies before they eat them and to cook the chicken to 165 degrees. I’m still offering feedback (wanted or not) on their schoolwork and nagging (gently) about their grades.
But there is something sort of disorienting about realizing you are no longer in charge of capital-C Childhood for anyone. There are no more class valentines to assemble. No need to disguise my handwriting on a note from the Tooth Fairy. No more nap mats to wash every Sunday night. No more knowing every cartoon character on TV.
Somewhere along the way, without my fully noticing or acknowledging it, I aged out of that entire world, the world of booster seats and playgrounds and juice boxes and bedtime stories. One day I was immersed in it, and the next day I was standing outside of it, hearing people discuss an animated Australian doglike anthropologists discussing a distant civilization.
And now I’m almost at a loss for what to do next, how to occupy my increased leisure time.
Maybe I’ll start watching “Bluey” all by myself.
