THE ART OF EMPTY-NESTING

The umbilical cord is cut and, in an instant, our children are on their own, physically. 
But, emotionally, the process is much different. For them, and for us. 

This time of year, I find myself thinking about all the parents who are about to become empty-nesters. The poor souls dropping their children off at college, and driving away in an empty car. To a quiet house. With the family dog that, sadly, might be just barely holding on.

Life's transitions are not easy, and empty nesting is a big one. One that pulls at your heart, and forces you to look back upon all the years that were. And are never coming back.

When Duncan and I returned to our house after dropping off our first son, Ian, I went into his bedroom and plunged my head into his pillow. I wanted to smell him. It was that visceral.

Then the memories flooded in. Him as a baby, sleeping in my arms, milk-drunk. As a toddler, fresh-faced and pink-cheeked after an afternoon nap. On his first day of kindergarten, when he couldn't have cared less about Duncan and me, but wouldn't go inside until he'd hugged his little brother, for longer than usual. In high school, when he had the lead in the musical, and belted out the final note, with unwavering confidence, but completely off key. To my ear, of course, his rendition was perfect. And he never looked more handsome. 

On that grueling post-college-partum day years ago, as Duncan lovingly pried me away from the tear-laden pillow, he looked at me and said, "I am the only person in this world who knows exactly how you feel right now." It brought me great comfort, but at the same time made my heart hurt for the wonderful man who had been by my side through it all.

I remembered something that my three sisters had told me. They said that the empty nest wouldn't be all about loss. Good things would happen too. There would be a new dimension in my marriage. A richness. An understanding.

My saucy sister (who shall remain nameless, but whom I suspect you can identify by now) had a few additional tantalizing tidbits of advice for me about the empty nest, but I will leave those to your imagination. To quote Duncan, "A dirty mind is a perpetual feast." Suffice it to say, that sister will never starve. And I love her for it.

Yes, our children grow up too fast. They go away. But one thing I've learned is that they always come back. And we get to forge new relationships with them as adults. Cool adults. Adults who no longer use our ATM cards (When Ian graduated from his masters program, I sent him an email saying "The ATM is now closed." He thought I was giving him the heads up that the ATM down the street was broken. You can't make that stuff up!)

Then your children become parents themselves, and the dance begins all over again.

This weekend is my granddaughter, Rose's, first birthday. At some point, I will stand back, and take in the "Kodak moment" before me. This is what Duncan told me that he wanted when we first met – "to be the founder of a great family." I always knew he would do it, but I never thought it would be so much fun. Together. 

Tonight it will be just Duncan and me in our now-too-big house. Amidst the stillness, I will listen for the quiet echo of my sons' voices. The joyfulness of their youth. The delight of young love. The inevitable woe of heartbreak. All of Ian and Peter's ordinary moments that made my life extraordinary. 

Like so many of you, my life now is different. But that's OK. True, I'm empty-nested, but I will always be surrounded by love.