OPERATION: ADULT CONVERSATION

It's August. And thank the lord, the kids are thriving.

Summer is peaking but—let's be honest—so are you. You've bleached, beached, and boozed your way through the better part of July, and while fun was had, your liver begs to differ.

So, what now? What's left, aside from the Billy Joel documentary that people are constantly shaming you into watching?

Oh right. The two of you.

"So," I say to my husband on our 39th day of sleepaway camp (we'll call him Dave because this isn't about protecting anyone's identity), "what should we talk about?"

He looks at me like I've just asked him to explain quantum physics using only hand gestures.

"Talk... about?"

"You know. A conversation. Like grown-ups do."

"Right," he says, blinking. "About what?"

And that's when it hits me: we are downright rusty on how to talk to each other without our children as conversational middlemen.

"So," I try again, channeling my inner talk show host, "what's new with you?"

Dave panics. "Um... I had a meeting?"

"Thrilling. Continue."

"It was... spreadsheet heavy. We discussed... pivot tables."

I think: My God. Foreplay.

I say: "Ah yes, spreadsheets. The cornerstone of human civilization."

This, I now realize, is why people invented dinner parties. Not for the food, not for the wine—but for the conversational backup. "Hey, want to come over and help us discuss, like, literally, anything?"

"We could discuss our future?" I offer, like a masochist.

"Our what?"

"You know. Our five-year plan."

"Oh. Sure. I plan to remain alive. Possibly with all my teeth."

"Honestly? Respect."

Progress! We just made a joke without mentioning our offspring!

"We could play Would You Rather?" Dave asks, eyes gleaming like he's cracked a code.

"Absolutely. You first."

"OK, would you rather fight a horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?"

Valid question. "Do I have to explain this scenario to the kids later? Because Emma will want to adopt the horses, or at least start a GoFundMe."

"No kids allowed."

"Then... who's feeding the horses?"

And just like that, our hypothetical becomes a parenting logistics meeting.

"New rule," I declare. "No mentioning the children. Ten minutes. Go."

We lock eyes. The clock starts.

Fifteen seconds of silence.

"This is physically painful," Dave whispers.

"They've colonized our brains."

"You said 'they!' Timer resets."

But it's over. The dam breaks.

"I bet they're on the ropes course," I say.

"Emma's probably convincing someone the mulch is lava."

"Sophia's already lobbying to list 'high ropes supremacy' on her résumé."

And now we're spiraling—twenty minutes deep into speculating about hydration levels, sunscreen coverage, and how many retainers have been flung into nature.

"Should we call and check in?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"We called last week."

"Exactly. That was, what, eight days ago? We're practically ghosts."

Dave checks his phone. "No missed calls. That's either excellent... or catastrophic."

And that, my friends, is how two grown adults spend a kid-free summer morning.

"Same time tomorrow?" Dave asks.

"Obviously."

Look, I don't know when we became those people who can't watch Disney movies without muttering about the god-awful parenting at every plot point, but I kind of love it.

The fact is, we haven't lost the art of conversation. We've just become highly specialized communicators who speak in side-eyes across school auctions. We are fluent in oh-my-god-did-you-see-that without saying a word. And yes, we talk about our kids constantly—because they're the most important thing we've ever done, and frankly, the world is a dumpster fire, so why not focus on the good stuff?

And honestly? Could be worse.

Could be spreadsheets.