Time to cut the apron strings

Well, we did it.

The hubs and I went out and — get this — we did not hire a babysitter.

We left the kids on their own.

Whoa.

That’s huge. HUGE, as any parent will tell you.

We’ve spent the past 14 years of our lives supervising everything, watching practices everywhere: soccer field sidelines, dusty baseball bleachers, climate-controlled basketball courts, in a claustrophobia-inducing gym waiting room.

We have conducted endless IQ and psychological testing on potential babysitters and regularly abused the availability of free and reliable oversight by grandparents.

And now the kids are old enough that we get to back off. Some.

It’s so weird.

They don’t have to circle me at Target like moons orbiting the mother planet. I let ’em head off to their respective sections of interest (Nerf toys, clothing, books). It seems like both a million years ago and as fresh as an hour ago that we came incredibly close to a DEFCON 1 situation when No. 2 wandered off in a big store. Just as employees were readying to sound the sirens and lock down the building, she popped up, happy and oblivious. “Hi, Mom!”

Now the same child, eight years later, has a cellphone and even when she’s off doing her own thing, I always know what’s happening. My cellphone pings every 15 seconds with questions. “Can I buy these shoes?” “Can I get this shirt?” “Can I buy some books?” “Do you like these pants? I could wear these pants to school.”

It’s probably not appropriate to be wistful about those Code Red days.

At the same time, there is definitely something to be said for their blossoming independence. Especially when it means not going through the hassle of finding a sitter. Well, a paid one anyway.

For our Big Night Out, we armed hyper-responsible No. 1 with pizza, the phone number of every neighbor within a 5-mile radius along with the assurance that her grandparents were 3 minutes away as well as permission to watch nonstop TV until we came home. Most importantly, we bestowed upon her the ultimate power over her challenging younger sibling: the ability to return her beloved cell phone if, and only if, she behaved like an angel.

We hadn’t even arrived at our destination when — ping! — a text zapped my cell.

Uh oh.

Heart racing, I glanced at the screen.

“We’re having a hard time choosing a movie … Any suggestions?”

OK, really? Was that text-worthy? Great, we took the past 14 years too far — they’re too dependent on us. Now how will we ever get them out of the house?

The rest of the night, though, went without another peep — or ping. Ah, Independence Day. And this one turned out so much better than the 1996 movie of the same name in which the White House got blown up.

We came home to eerie quiet, everyone lulled into a trance by the glowing TV screen of what they eventually decided to watch (a marathon of the sitcom “Parks and Recreation.” Excellent choice.) The house was still structurally intact; furniture all in place and in the same shape we left it. All dogs were accounted for, as were all kids’ fingers, toes and limbs.

A happy ending to an evening out. It was such a relief that we ended up paying our free babysitter.