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Once again, it's just the two of us
By Dorothy Foltz-Gray
 I
always thought children left home at 18. But that's another lie
in the annals of parenthood. They turn 13, and they are outta there--"there"
being the six-foot radius of air surrounding the parents. Oddly
enough, the change hits parental consciousness slowly. My husband,
Dan, and I first noticed when we began finishing whole sentences
in front of each other. The big eye-opener came one Friday, formerly
known as family picnic and movie night.
"I'm spending the night at Ben's," Jacob, our 15-year-old, told
his Dad.
"I'm spending the night at Ian's," Matthew, our 13-year-old, told
me.
Sometime late Friday afternoon, Dan and I exchanged this information,
and a big new thought entered our collective head. We were alone.
Being alone after 15 years of family chaos is disorienting--like
free fall. All of a sudden, Dan and I were together for long, quiet
hours. Sipping coffee Sunday mornings on the front porch. Taking
long walks. Eating dinner in bed, the way we used to before we had
children. We found ourselves on some strange journey backward to
selves we once knew, except we weren't headed for those selves at
all. We'd been somewhere, through a 15-year tunnel, and we'd come
out the other side like two metals alloyed.
Dan and I had found parenting a rough ride. We worked hard at it,
fought about it, mourned over it and finally succeeded at it, if
our boys are the measure. But in the process we saw parts of each
other and ourselves that were tough revelations. Who knew Dan had
a temper? Or that I was a screamer? Having children involves throwing
a tarp over your personal demons and wrestling them to the ground--and
sometimes calling out for help.
Now, these sunny days, as Dan and I sip wine on the front porch,
I look at him and realize that 15 years ago we set out on a journey
without a clue. Like Lewis and Clark, we've made it, and the trip
married us the way hard trips do. We kept diaries and named species
we'd never seen before, and kissed when we touched ground. We'd
been somewhere and the journey was named for us, and we knew it.
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