The Empty Room

Barbara: It’s not an “empty nest”. That’s a stupid innocuous metaphor that makes it all sound so mild and ordinary. So whatevs. I mean, come on! Birds have at least one empty nest a season; they’re used to it. It’s in their blood to nudge their fledglings out and at ‘em. But for me, for ME, it’s an empty empty EMPTY ROOM.

Or it will be next week.

As I write this, I am in full prep-mode for moving our youngest to her university town for her first year of school. As you read this, however, I will be in the middle of actually doing it. I figured that since I would have my hands full and maybe not great access to the internet, I should write and post this now. The thing is as I write this, I’m trying to stay in denial. I know this. My daughter knows it. It’s the only way I can cope. I am keeping myself busy, distracted, trying to avoid the conscious acknowledgement of the future “empty room”. But as I write this, the emotional truth is rising up, hitting me square in the chest.

Michele at 6. I could say something cheesy about the plane and "flying away", but I won't...

I am very very very very very close with both my daughters. We talk about everything, share most things, ask for advice, offer it up, and love each other in great big obvious swaths of colour. My older daughter—as much as she would have loved to study elsewhere—really only had one choice of schools for her major and that was here. My younger’s choice of schools was also obvious, but it meant she would have to leave home to attend it. So at 17, she’s packing her stuff and moving out. She is ready, “chomping at the bit” even. She loves us and loves home and all that, but she can’t wait to taste her true independence.

Because this one just makes us all laugh...

Just because...

Because when you start with one cute kid shot, it's hard to stop...

And because you've already seen her all grown up...

And I’m not saying we’re attached at the hip or anything—she is very independent already, hanging with friends and working hard first at school, then at her part-time jobs (yes, two of them)—but we talk A LOT. Ours are chat sessions that last hours as we catch up and discuss and analyze and pull out our imaginary crystal balls to predict the future. I love these sessions. I hardly know what I will do without them. I don’t care that I will have more time to write, to work and to think. I will miss these talks with ever fibre of my being.

I know fundamentally all will be well and good; I will get to reconnect with my husband, myself, my cleaner house; I’ll get used to it; it will be the new normal; there are phone calls and texting and skype. Blah blah blah.

But the truth is it is a heartbreaking and difficult transition, this one. My baby is leaving and her room will never be the same. Sure, it might be a lot cleaner. Sure, I might have greater access to my towels, my bathroom, my kitchen counter, my clothes. But that soon-to-be clutter-free, laundry-less bedroom across for my own will now loom like a portal­­––maybe to an old life, maybe to the new one––and it’s now-open door will be a daily reminder of who is gone.

This might all be overly dramatic or emotional or just plain wrong, but I’m telling you: this is exactly how it feels on this day. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Deb: Not too dramatic at all in my opinion, for you know I have been there and you know the whole sad wrenching tale. Thought I would die the day the boy left. I felt so empty I could not fathom how I was able to stand up with nothing inside to hold me together.

I will tell you though from my vantage point three years post leaving: it does get better. It becomes normal, it becomes just your life. As quickly as the hands-on Mum in grade school grade school was forced to become the hands-off Mum in high school, you will adapt.

But yeah, the room.

Fortunately the boy’s room is on the other side of our home so I don’t have to pass by it every day as you do. But it brings to mind one of the best parenting choices I ever made. When Luke was growing up we never ever fought about the state of chaos that was his room. Our only rule was: tidy it on Thursday nights for the cleaning lady coming. He did, and it never became an issue. I never wanted to rant about pop cans and dirty underwear on the floor and I didn’t. I knew that all too soon, it would be as neat as a pin and as empty as my heart.

Cut to three years later ... It’s a great place to keep the iron and ironing board.

But wow, do I ever look forward to that visiting carpet of dirty underwear when it appears, however brief.