This series began eight years ago when, on June 26, 2010, I sat down and emptied my head of the many thoughts swirling on the topic of “empty nest,” which, in my case (at that moment), involved the strange polarity of being the terribly proud parent of a graduating high school senior while starkly aware that my child’s next move took him out the door. Unfathomable.
Empty Nest Syndrome was not something I took all that seriously in the early years. People made jokes about it; some friends referenced their experiences with chagrin, others denied it was even a thing. When it came my turn, it struck like a tsunami.
No matter how rational thought defines this moment in a family’s life —”it’s perfectly natural,” “it’s the next logical step”; “a chance to see your kid fly” — irrational thought says sending your kid off on his own after eighteen years of deeply-felt all-hands-on-deck involvement was nuts. For me it was like losing a limb: I ultimately learned to function without it, but never stopped feeling it should still be there.
But rather than reiterate the roller-coaster unfolding of that momentous transition, I’ll refer you to Parts 1-5 of the series (linked below) where the ups, downs, triumphs and heartaches of this maddening time were noted. As for now — this final chapter — I wanted to reflect a bit in conclusion, to bring this series to a proper close as I help the man my son has become choose area rugs and decide which couch best fits the parameters of his new apartment.
I’m a lucky parent: I have a strong, enduring marriage with a good man who’s a good father, and a child who’s both a delight and the single most amazing aspect of my life. I have few parenting regrets (there was that outburst with the spilled apple cider, and the bowl cut was unfortunate), and if the testament of successful parenting is a successful child, my husband and I win first prize. So I approach this final letting-go with, yes, a lump in my throat but the humble satisfaction of feeling parentally accomplished.
But there’s still the matter of someone you love stepping further from your life, and, regardless of their assigned role, there’s sadness in that.
As adults, we gauge and shift within our peer relationships with a sense of continuity, a certain predictability. We, they, may grow and change in any variety of ways, but we’re fully-formed people by then, and those changes are usually subtle and nuanced. Friends have no reason to leave, to move out, to go off on their own simply because that’s an inevitable part of development. The good ones stay, the birthday celebrations pile up; you grow old together.
With our children, the exact opposite is true. Every day, week, month, year brings a new person into our midst — physically, mentally, emotionally, developmentally — and, as parents, our job is to adjust and change as our child requires. What the five-year-old needs is a far cry from the fifteen-year-old, or the twenty-five-year old, and we are obligated to sort out how to be the right parent for the right age. But five, fifteen, or twenty-five, and despite the profound changes that come with child-to-adult transitions, our love and attachment sustain. Which makes their departures, their distancing, their independence, heartrending.
In my case, it’s very simple: I enjoy my son’s company. Not just as a parent, but as a person, a friend. He’s smart and aware; he makes me laugh, introduces me to new music, discusses politics with verve. He’s as good a friend as any I’ve got; he tells me this is mutual, and the ease he clearly feels with me and his father makes sharing space an easy, natural thing to do. So when some people seemed surprised that he was still at home at twenty-five, I felt I had to explain; to assure them he wasn’t some launch-challenged millennial in dirty pajamas playing video games in a crusty bedroom yelling, “Ma, I need a sandwich!”
In fact, the “cool roommate” he was in his younger years only expanded in the post-college era: he continued to be entertaining and companionable, and he paid his own way, did his own laundry, cleaned his own room; even kept our technology in top-running order. Who wouldn’t appreciate a roommate like that?
I saw this post-college year as a bonus, one we didn’t expect, as he, first, looked for a job; got one at an engineering firm nearby, then transitioned to a much better engineering firm downtown, and while he wasn’t around all that much — girlfriend, sports, game nights with buddies — the warm moments around the dinner table or those Q&A sessions after watching Westworld (I mean, wth?) were precious. I took not a one for granted, and chose not to think about when they, too, would end.
But they did. When he finally announced, after a year of commuting from the beach to downtown LA (dear Lord…), that he was ready to find his own place within walking distance of work, I knew we’d reached the last rite-of-passage: the final move-out. It inspired a tear, a lump, and an acknowledgement that we were there, but it was so inevitable that it struck gently. Softly. Empty Nest Lite.
Maybe because I so well remember when I first set out on my own. My family life was very different from my son’s, my exit far more fraught, but that sense of independence, of staking a claim to adulthood — from picking the apartment, to finding furniture, towels; pots and pans, feeling fully responsible and free to create whatever life I chose — was equally as exhilarating. I could vicariously feel his excitement at the novelty of autonomy, of planting himself somewhere he’d never lived before, opening himself to explore and experience new things. It’s heady; I remember.
So when the day came, we pulled his stuff from storage — the college items, the great pieces saved from our Humboldt house, the selections from his room — and headed to his beautiful, sparkling apartment in a downtown high-rise with windows facing west and a view of the vibrant city and ocean beyond, and helped him start his new life.
I was so focused on the tasks at hand, so impressed by his good taste in the place he’d chosen, so anticipatory of having reason to spend more time in the city, so relieved the move went fairly smoothly, that nary a lump was had the whole day. I felt only that my husband and I had launched our beautiful boy with confidence, knowing he is solid in who he is; joyful in his career, clear about his priorities, and committed to an honorable life.
As my dear friend said, “You did good.” We did. We all did. He’s still deciding on a couch, I’m working on my next book; hubby is taking care of business. Life rolls forward, we breathe… growing up, letting go, and finding new ways to build history.
Of course, this wireless router will now have to be managed without his patient tutelage, but I guess we old folks have to learn and evolve just like everyone else! Dammit. ☺
The End
All photos by permission of LDW. Truck photo by Marilyn Perez.
To read the entire Empty Nest series, click links below:
• Empty Nest Pt 1: My Very Cool Roommate Is Moving Out…
• Empty Nest Pt 2: Empty ‘Next’ Syndrome…Coming Home
• Empty Nest Pt. 3: See You In November!
* Empty Nest Pt. 4: He’s Leaving Home AGAIN… Bye Bye
* Empty Nest Pt. 5: It’s a Wrap… Well, Almost
* Empty Nest Pt. 6: the Final Chapter: With Keys In Hand, He Flies…
* Empty Nest, EPILOGUE: He’s Getting Married in the Morning
Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.
When I was about three months pregnant, I remember looking into the empty room that was to be his, overwhelmed with a feeling of, “Oh, dear God, there’s going to be a person, an actual living person in there in a few months, and what the hell do I know about taking care of an actual person who’s going to non-negotiably LIVE with me for the next couple of decades??!” It was science fiction, that’s how strange and unimaginable it seemed at the time. And yet, by eight months I was calm and ready to get on with it; by nine I couldn’t wait. It was then I realized how truly brilliant Mother Nature is, the way she so wisely manages our evolution to assimilate, cope, and ready for the big changes in our lives. And just as we mothers are given nine full months (in most cases) to ramp up to the enormity of the task we’re taking on, the gestation period of the college chapter 18 years later is our time to learn how to successfully let go and move beyond that first incarnation of the job. The Motherhood Bookend, if you will. Bringing Them Home then Letting Them Go. There’s a sad but sweet symmetry there.
understandable, that struggle, but since the changes are inevitable, it’s advised to get a jump on it! Take the gift of these college years, so generously offered by Mother Nature, to slowly but surely learn the parameters of your new role. By the time you actually get to their Fully Adult part, when they’ve moved into their own home, are paying their own way, and struggling with their own transitions into their own new roles as independent men or women, you’ll have a tremendous head start, ready and able to help them through it all. And they’ll need it!
I remain unconvinced that growing up and leaving home is just a required part of the program. In my own case it certainly was but in his… well, somehow it strikes me differently. I’ve always felt if it ain’t broke don’t fix it and we had a pretty unbroken thing going. He was a delightful companion, a relatively responsible roommate (though I admit the early years with the diapers and spoon feedings were a tad one-sided); a stellar entertainer, and quite the flexible traveler. There were tantrums, I admit, occasional lapses in academic devotion, and the limited food palate could be a challenge, but he was never incorrigible, and he generally thought we adults were cool. He was like living with your best friend through the various stages of your best friend’s life right down to the moment he figured out HTML and could build your website — then it just seemed silly to let him go.
As we edge closer to this second chapter of Empty Nest, what’s coming into view is the reality that once the child leaves home for that first school year away, nothing is ever quite the same. We will get into familiar rhythms of dinner around a good movie, card games at the table, hikes down to the jetty, meals and plans and trips together, and it will be wonderful and I will cherish every moment. But unlike before — when this was just OUR LIFE, when time stretched before us so wide and open and whatever happened today might happen again tomorrow and we didn’t need to talk about it or look too far ahead because it was just there, unfolding naturally every day; Family. Mother, Father, Son — what it is now is… I don’t know. I’m not sure. We’ll see. Send suggestions.
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