Empty Nest
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Empty Nest By K. M. Whiting Something very strange has happened at our house. Leftovers can be found, Tupperware lids firmly secured, stacked in the fridge where I left them. Papa Bear can start his car with confidence each morning, knowing exactly where his gas gauge will register. We haven’t noticed the pungent aroma of five-day-old socks, Speedo and towel in weeks. Our Man-Cub has left home for college. And I’m miserable. Last year, we sat side by side at the computer, reviewing one particular application for the fourth time. We reached an awkward silence; he turned to me and sheepishly asked, “Well, should I send it now?” All I could do was nod, due to the large lump in my throat. After entrusting the info to the cyberspace gods, we hugged and whooped. Seven-year-old little brother, Tom-Tom, asked, “Oooh, did he get in?” Well, it wasn’t quite that speedy, but it didn’t take long for the thick envelope to arrive. We were all ecstatic, but I hung onto Man-Cub a little too long and cried a squoosh too hard. I thought it would all distill into unadulterated joy and pride. But I was oh, so wrong. A good night’s sleep became non-existent for me. I perfected several annoying tics, such as tearing at my cuticles and chewing up the insides of my mouth. I gained the dreaded ‘freshman fifteen’ pounds for him, before we even mailed the acceptance check. “Come on,” I often said to myself, “Get a grip! You’re a tough old bird. This is what we all wanted, right?” When over-exercising and self-hypnosis lessons failed to help calm my anxiety, I decided on a different tactic. Being a veteran Silicon Mom, I’d analyze my despair, make a mental pie-chart of exactly what would I miss when Man-Cub left the house, and in what proportions. Identification leads to acceptance and resolutions, right? Well, at least it would keep my mind occupied while I waited all night for the newspaper to hit the driveway at pre-dawn. A great deal of my grief came from the anticipation of the loss of the ‘wackiness factor’ that Man-Cub contributes to our household. He is a child who sincerely celebrates his individuality. True, his Dough-Boy clock still hangs on his bedroom wall upstairs, as do the 1999 Curious George calendar and original “Shaft” poster. But the plastic lawn gnome I bought him as a graduation gift now holds a spot of honor in his cramped dorm room. Secondly, what about our Tom-Tom’s loss? His big brother is his most significant role model. Who else could possibly help this first grader perfect his disgusting cupped-palm-to-armpit noise? I can lecture and cajole about the crudeness of using a shirtsleeve as a napkin to no avail, but a couple of eye-rolls from Man-Cub and Tom-Tom magically stops. Could I be, gulp, jealous? Man-Cub’s dorm room view of the Pacific Ocean beats the snot out of anything out of the windows here at home. He’s enrolled in a two-year course called Great Books – a broad study of history, religion, English, sociology and philosophy through the classics, from Homer to Shakespeare to Kant. Yep, another slab of pie. I’ve yet to mention the forest of shaggy-headed guys who haven’t played ping-pong in our garage for weeks. No one has thrown Tom-Tom around like a giggling beach ball either. I could smell them coming – the tang of chlorine with undertones of curly chili fries. They watched their language and music choices in our home, in exchange for heavy doses of carbohydrates. Many of them unabashedly called me “Mom”, and sang to me on my birthday. And what about the camaraderie that Man-Cub and I share? I doubt I’ll find many golf partners who will pull out their seven irons and sword fight with me on the eleventh green after our mulligans are spent. Believe me, I will be getting no more invitations to concerts featuring They Might be Giants, or Adam and His Package, especially from anyone who would join me in singing the goofy lyrics out loud. Well, this whole pie-chart thing just didn’t seem to be working. I can’t analyze and categorize my love, my pride, my sense of loss over this boy. The beauty of a relationship with your child is that it shifts, it evolves. Each event in your lives together can serve as a doorway to a new facet of your love and understanding of each other. Slowly, I’m finding that it’s okay to have lonely moments, as long as they’re tempered with warm memories. Oddly, sending a care package of Balance bars, orange ping-pong balls and a Batman pez dispenser can tide me over for days. Besides, there’s a big family Thanksgiving, then a long Christmas break to anticipate. You can be sure there will be many head-noogies given and received then. Yep, analysis be damned. More pie please, and make it cherry with a scoop of vanilla on the side. We have much to celebrate. *** About the author: K.M. Whiting has been married for 400 years and has two great sons. She enjoys good cabernets and collecting dorky vintage bird statues, often at the same time. In her more sober moments, she is director of their family charitable foundation. © siliconmom
