The Empty of the Nest

Two years ago when my youngest left home, so many of my friends told me that I would not really like the empty nest syndrome.  I, of course, said that I had plans, and I would enjoy the peace and quiet.  That has been true to a certain extent, but there are the grandsons filling up the space and the quiet, and most of the things I had planned have not come to be.

The empty of the nest is sometimes echoingly empty.  I realize that I raised my three kids to leave home. It's the process of life. Being home wasn't always a fun place to be, and having me for a mom was always just a little bit on the crazy side.  I admit it, they will tell you it, and so it is.  There are times though, when the empty is a cavern that seems too huge to fill.

My oldest, Sarah, is 1476.75 miles from home.  If I were to drive to her house, Mapquest tells me that it would take me 22 hours and 11 minutes. In other words, it's a long drive.  I go there often, in my mind.  I think of what it would be like to visit her, to eat at the restaurant where she works, to see her new home, to meet Sean's parents, and all her friends.  I've yet to make the actual trip, but I visit often in my hopes, and dreams, and schemes.  She thinks I will never come to visit her, but she is wrong.

Sarah's room was a work of art.  She drew on her walls, and even though it was hard to do, I eventually painted over all that work, and teenage emotion, and turned her room into a guest room.  It's a guest room, but it's still Sarah's room.  It's an empty part of the nest.

Julia lives just about nine miles from me, but there are times when it seems like she is a thousand miles from home as well.  Her dad will often say, "She could at least stop in, and she could bring Greyson with her. It's a long time from Friday to Friday."  Some of Julie's things are still here, but her room is empty of Julie, and is an empty part of the nest.  I have plans to make that room into another guest room, and to paint it something other than shades of green.  No matter the color, or that it's another guest room, it's still Julie's room.

Jacob lives 257.81 miles from home, and though he is much closer than Sarah, there are times it seems he is so much farther.  Boys just don't call as often, don't share as much of their lives, operate on a need to know basis, and there is so much a mom does not need to know.  In his room there are many echoes of Jacob.  The hole in the wall, the scuffed up wall from his easy chair, that rubbed across the wall while he swiveled it back and forth while playing his Xbox 360.  I stand in there at times, and I hear his sister yelling at him to turn down the stereo, or to stop thunking the golf club on the floor.  I think I hear him lumbering down the hall, and am disappointed when it's not him, just my imagination.  I have plans for his room too.  Plans that involve wall repair, and paint, but no matter the repairs, of the color involved, it's still Jacob's room, and a part of the emptiness of the nest.

As August approaches, and school begins, I think of the parents who will be sending their little ones to kindergarten, and remember the tears, all mine, not theirs, as I left them there at school.  School, that new world of adventure, and learning, and growing!  I think of the parents who will have children, who think they are grownups, entering into middle school.  I think of the parents with children in high school and remember thinking, I'm almost done.  Then I think of the college kids, who are adults, but still kids.  Ah what a journey.

From that first moment of conception, to the last of the apron string being snipped, it's a journey filled with joy, with sorrow, with aches and pains, the tooth fairy that forgot to show up, the agony of early school mornings, the broken hearts, drivers ed, finals, dances, homecomings, prom, cell phones, forgetting to call home, curfews, moving out, moving on, and so much more.  It's a house that becomes a home filled with memories, some good, some bad, some awesome, and with all that, it remains the place called home, though empty of little ones that filled the nest, it's still home.