quiet

I’m not chill about a lot of things, but I am usually calm about my kids leaving home. Between sleep-away camps and dance intensives in various lengths of time and various levels of supervision and freedom, they’ve both cobbled together experiences that make me feel like they’re tip-toeing their way to independence. That’s the goal, of course, so these boomerang adventures, the ones where they circle back, are helping all of us get more comfortable for when the boomerang flies for a truly long time.

But Dylan is in Washington D.C. on the ubiquitous eighth grade trip, and our house is quiet.

It’s not that he spends his evenings chatting with Ryan and I about his day. We chat, separate, rush places, maybe eat together on good days, play a little cards on better days, and basically cleave together the same routines that take place in millions of houses across the world. Yet even on the days when we barely have conversations, I hear him chatting with his friends while playing video games or get a breakdown of his day while we’re driving in the car. He sends me Tik Tok videos. He (for now) still hugs me goodnight.

Our house is quiet.

For all of the logical understanding about building responsibility and freedom and the idea that I know they’ll be on their own eventually, I cherish the times we’re all sleeping under the same roof. I breathe easier, even on nights when my anxiety is racing about something, anything, everything. Maybe it’s partly because time is creeping up behind me and tapping me on the shoulder more frequently. Two kids taking a PSAT this year, two kids in high school next year — milestone upon milestone that once seemed so far away are slipping from my calendar.

Our house is quiet, and tonight I miss the noise.