Parenting Your Adult Children
Since becoming an empty nester, people often ask how the kids are doing. The short answer? Great—except when they’re not. Great because they’re exactly where they should be, each working toward another degree. Annie and Abbie graduated and have moved on to advanced degrees. Cam, the youngest, has started undergrad. They are, in every sense, moving forward.
Not great when they call asking how to fix a broken heater, what to do when they’re sick, or where, exactly, one takes clothes for dry cleaning. They are adulting, as the kids say, and it’s hard not to swoop in and fix everything. When they were little, I thought I could fix things. Of course, that wasn’t true then either.
They all came home for the holidays, and while it was wonderful, I realized something had shifted. Abbie was home for six days in December, Annie for two weeks—not the standard four-week stretch. It felt less like “You’re home!” and more like “Oh, you’re visiting.” So, naturally, I started taking over their closets. That’s what happens when you leave: I claim your space.
But I love this phase of parenting. We hang out, we joke, we do things adults do. Meeting Annie in New York for the day? Delightful. Seeing Abbie in New Orleans for a law conference? Fantastic. But the real highlight is when they want to relive childhood—like, say, by attending a live performance of Wild Kratts.
When the kids were young, Wild Kratts was Cam’s show. A nature program featuring brothers Chris and Martin Kratt, it was a staple in our home. Each episode started with the Kratts, then in their 40s (and sporting knee braces), introducing an animal and its abilities before launching into an animated version of themselves—magically thinner and with better hair—discovering their so-called “creature powers.”
Cam loved it. He DVR’d episodes, memorized facts, and to this day can give you an unsolicited TED Talk on peregrine falcons. If you ever find yourself making a casual bet with Cam about animal traits, don’t. You will lose.
Now 19, Cam is technically an adult. Wild Kratts is still on the air, and—because the Kratt brothers are either marketing geniuses or gluttons for punishment—they’ve taken the show on the road. I spotted an ad for their live tour and, half-joking, asked Cam if he wanted to go. I expected an eye-roll. Instead, he said yes.
So, like any good mother, I bought the tickets. And like any financially irresponsible mother, I paid $150 per seat. But if my kid wants to relive his childhood, I’m going to be right there next to him, no matter the price.
The show was at Ovens Auditorium, one of the largest in Charlotte, and packed with frazzled parents and their hyperactive five-year-olds. Cam and I found our seats and got a few odd looks. I turned to the mother behind us and, in an attempt to explain ourselves, said, “This is my kid. He loved this show when he was little.” She laughed and called it sweet.
The dad in front of us arrived with his son—who was fully decked out in a Kratt Brothers Creature Power suit—and his three-year-old daughter. The boy couldn’t sit still. I leaned over and suggested the father grab a booster seat from the lobby. I’ve been to enough of these shows to know what’s what.
The kids kept turning around, sneaking glances at Cam and me. “Are you excited?” I asked one.
The boy nodded and declared, “Tiger! The tiger goes PEEEEEE.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, they do. So do you. So do I. So do all animals.”
Thrilled with this revelation, the boy started chanting, “PEE PEE PEE!”
His father, clearly annoyed, reached over his daughter, put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said, “We do not use those words in our house.” Then he turned and glared at me.
And all I could think was, If you’re this upset about number one, just wait until number two comes along.
Then the lights dimmed. The room filled with the squeals of children, and the screen above the stage announced the show was about to begin. I still wasn’t sure what to expect. And then, there they were: Martin (now 59) and Chris (55), jumping out in their signature blue and green shirts. Only now, Martin’s once-snug pullover had been replaced with an untucked button-down—an attempt, I assumed, to camouflage a middle-aged belly.
The kids lost their minds. Cam and I grinned at each other, and when Martin and Chris shouted, “What if?” my fully grown son shouted right back.
The best part of having adult kids? After a night of nostalgia, we went home, I made eggs with veggies, and we split a bottle of wine.
Because childhood is fleeting. But that—the joy of remembering it together—sticks around.
