"Empty Nest?"

"It must be nice having an empty nest."

If I had a nickel for every time I heard these words, I'd have plenty of money for retirement. I often wonder why these words represent such a devastating time in a parent's life. Nest suggests birds to my mind; birds suggest baby birds and their plights.

Baby birds spend very little time in their nests and very little time learning about the outside world before they take the final plunge. They're nurtured for how long? One month? Two? Okay, perhaps longer for some varieties. But still, how does it compare to the many years we spend nurturing our children?

How does it compare to the cherished years in which I took care of my children?

It doesn't.

Therefore, the phrase irritates me.

When our children become adults and leave home, we are grief-stricken. We go from seeing them everyday to occasional visits. We go from clothing them, feeding them, caring for their every need to nothing—nobody.

Each morning booms with silence: Their clamoring was our peace and quiet. And now we pass by their bedrooms and imagine them lying there. We sit on their made beds, lovingly glide our hands across their pillows, and sob. In a dreamlike state, we stumble to the kitchen and start the day with a prayer that goes something like this: "Please God help me make it through the day."

My daughter was my first to go.

After high school, she wanted some time off from schoolwork and decided not to attend college right away. It didn't take long for us to realize that two adult women living in the same house was trying at best. I say "us" in the previous sentence, but in retrospect I pulled the "plug" long before my daughter did.

She was staying out all hours of the night. Drunken men were hanging around outside our home. And she and I argued incessantly. We were both strong, stubborn women with separate notions of the discipline to which over-eighteeners should adhere.

And ultimately, this led to a jarring separation.

I helped her find a rental house near her work; even assisted in the move. But as I stepped out of her life and she out of mine that inauspicious day, my life changed forever.

Years later, during a conversation, she starkly mentioned how I kicked her out of the house, but allowed my son to remain "as long as he wanted." Her reference pierced my chest and hacked at my heart.

How could she get it so wrong, I thought.

But some truths aren't as apparent as we suppose.

Actually, her leaving discharged a round straight through my heart. I was certain that had I been shot by a real gun, the wound wouldn't hurt as much. I longed to see her every morning. I missed our talks every night. I yearned for the way she often smirked at me in disagreement. Even our callous arguments became fond memories.

With her gone, my son became even more precious to me. I only had the two of them, and he was the last one left. I wanted every minute with him to count.

My behavior towards my son shifted when my daughter moved out. Why couldn't she see that? How could she not know?

I walked away from her the day of her somber remark without saying a word.

Today, I realize that only parents know that ache. Only parents know the anguish of letting go. And to comprehend this suffering, one must experience it first hand.

I still remember when I left my parents' home. It was three months before my eighteenth birthday. With tears streaming down my mother's face and an expression of sheer agony, she said good-bye. Before walking away that night, I heard her say, "Remember, this is always your home."

Even now, I frequently remember her beginning each of life's lessons with, "You are only in my care for a little while:" I thought that she began this way to lessen the blow I'd receive upon leaving home someday. I now understand that she was readying herself—not me—for the inevitable separation that was looming in our future.

Perhaps, she supposed that if she repeated "You are only in my care for a little while" often enough she'd be ready.

I said my mother's words to my children as well.

Yet, I still cried when I walked my daughter to kindergarten for the first time. I cried when her heart was broken for the first time. I cried when she left home and rented her house. I cried when she walked down the aisle on her wedding day. And I cried when she told me I was going to be a grandmother.

As for my son…

There are no words to explain my life when he left.

Alas, my children are a mere seven years apart.

And the time I had left with my son was a newly found treasure after losing my daughter. Nevertheless, I felt the rushing hands of time sweep past my heart most days. Soon it was his turn. It was as if I simply blinked and seven years had passed.

It was much harder than the first time; not because I cared for or loved him more than my daughter, but because my days of waking up to the sound of children in the house were over.

Both of my children are now adults and on their own. It has been many years since they took their first steps to independence.

And yet, the old memories still haunt me.

Every now and then when I see young mothers cuddling their sons and daughters, my heart yearns for mine—for my time back.

When I gaze at my children's baby pictures, I weep.

I think of my children when I watch the movie Four Feathers. In it is a line that states, "God put you in my way. I have no choice." Each time I hear these words, I cry.

Is there a way to prepare parents for their children leaving home?

Maybe…

I've yet to find anyone who knows the answer though.

We always want more time.

We never want to see them leave.

We always have them in our hearts and minds—no matter where they are.

An empty nest?

I think not.

Comments

[cat connor]

This was a topic in our house just recently. The boy wonder has decided not to go to University in Auckland (some 800km away). Truthfully, I never wanted him to go that far away at 18 but supported his choice of University -so he never knew.
Darling husband has since pointed out that he believes I shall be a wreck when the Boy Wonder does leave home. Despite me pointing out that 4 of them have already done so and there are still two a LONG way off leaving -once the Boy Wonder moves.
I think he's right though - I miss The prodigal son terribly, not so much when he left home (because he came back, dropped in, and was just 20km away at University) but when he graduated and moved to London... that was/is hellish. Now he's getting married and I don't think he'll ever come back to NZ. Not something I like thinking about!!!

I miss the girls too - but it only takes a few days of Scariest-of-all-daughters and her boys being back at home before I remember how much more I love her in her own home! :)

I always figured my girls were nasty/evil enough to handle life... but my boys, they're my boys! lol