Blogging Out Loud: Empty Nest

Barbara and Deb: Hello, everyone, and welcome to our first installation of Blogging Out Loud! We've wanted to do more video blogs for a while now (and many of you encouraged us too), but we are always at the mercy of our limited tech skills (or, rather, our perception thereof) and our lack of camera crew. Lo, our wonderful Luke has returned to the fold and sweetly agreed (we didn’t really ask him) to tape our convo. Thank you, Luke!

We put a few episodes in the can (so don’t wonder why our clothes are always the same), and we hope you enjoy! As always, we look forward to continuing the conversation in the comments section.

If you didn't read it, click here for the post Barbara refers to in the video. And this is the original set-up post.

The Low Down, Low Grade Blues

Barbara: After a wonderful whirlwind long weekend in Montreal last week, after seeing my daughter and reveling in family and friends, I am now back at home and officially navigating my new path of quietude. Because back at home there are no dinner parties or kids (or noise), back at home life “goes on”. And, yes, as we’d all anticipated, this new life of quietude is not without its challenges: namely, it also comes—at the moment—with an undercurrent of wistful, delicate sa-tigue (see how I made that up? “Sad” and “fatigue” together … because it feels remarkably like fatigue).

I swear I wasn’t even going to write about this as I don’t want you to worry about me or get all schlumpy yourselves (ever notice how moods are infectious?), but then … well, when you gotta write, you gotta write what you know, right? And right now, this is what I know.

I am doing my thing, by the way, and getting LOTS done (which is very satisfying and wonderful), but this satigue just follows me everywhere. Kinda like a puppy who’s forced to be with you on a long road trip and does so only because he loves you and the alternative of being left behind is much much worse but who is in great emotional distress the whole time because he HATES the car but he’d prefer you didn’t know this as his favourite purpose in life is to follow you around happily and adore you and so he suffers the dreaded 6-hour car ride in whimpering “silence”. (… Yes, this would be Chaplin on last week’s road trip to and from Montreal. Make sure you listen for his low down, low-grade whine...)

And do you ever find when you’re nursing the low down, low-grade blues that you kinda want to be left alone with them? That you don’t really want to chat and visit and be cheered? I know, for me, it’s all about letting it run its gentle course. And, in my experience, it is a gentle course. This is not the same feeling as true depression, or frustration, or angst, or grief. It is something else entirely. It feels almost like that dull ache you get when you’re a young teen and your bones are growing you into your next shape and size. Everything kinda throbs and hurts and your longer arms and legs make you all clumsy and awkward. But. BUT. You have this niggling, insistent, committed certainty that this new size and shape is going to be just swell in time and that it will all be worth it in the end.

So the truth is out: definitely feeling the blues right now. But the hope is there: definitely convinced it won’t last that long or be for naught.

Deb: Oh Barb. I have no words of wisdom. I hope you take solace in the fact that you know I have been where you are. I hope you see that we made the best of it and that we were rewarded with the return of our boy plus a girl. I also hope you see how very very fast that time went. We are reversed, aren’t we? We are reversed. I am feeling your satigue and I am phoning you...right now. Sending love. xo

The Quiet House

Barbara: I almost called this post The Empty Nest because that is the ubiquitous term for what my home now is. I have nothing against the expression. A nest is cozy, potentially nurturing, a little be-fuzzed cradle of warmth and protection. But it is also just an expression … and as a result, kinda devoid of substance and evocative meaning.

The real honest truth is that—after a summer of both kids home, with their attendant messes and noises and thrown-around stuff—the house is as lovely as ever, more lovely maybe (because it’s really clean), but now it is echoey quiet.

Two rooms just sitting there, doing nothing.

I knew this day was coming. Of course, I’ve talked about it here on these very pages many times. You’ve comforted me through a bunch of baby steps leading up to this moment—and this moment, in many ways, is just a baby step itself, as both girls still officially live at home while they have their adventures in other parts of the world.

The sweetest part in the “bittersweet” aspect of the girls leaving is that they are both off on grand adventures. Adventures of a lifetime. One at school in Montreal, one in Paris doing what she loves. Is there anything more wonderful than having an adventure? When you get older you begin to get a bit nostalgic for those days of “anything can happen”, “every possibility exists”. Many years of responsibility and living the hardened reality of the choices you made long ago sometimes gets you believing that “possibility” is just a possibility for the young. Of course, that is wrong. And kinda dumb.

So, in my newly quiet house, with my newly freed-up schedule (not that the girls took up a lot of my time, but it’s strange how our beloveds’ priorities so quickly become our own), I have decided to remind myself—daily—that life does have a bookend-ish symmetry to it. The baby/old person symmetry is familiar to all of us, right? But what of the symmetry between the fledgling adult, yes, “flying the nest” and the once-vigilant, protective, hatchling-free adult now able to “fly the nest” themselves? I’m not going to leave my home. No, I’m good here. But I am going to take my own needs into my hands and have my own adventures.

Between you and me, my number one priority will be to write. Write, write, write. This is the magic space for me. It is the one thing I do that consistently makes me feel goooooood. But I will also workout, do yoga, meditate. And I will also get all my “real” work done (because there’s still a lot of that to do). How am I going to make sure I do all of this? I have … get this … made myself a serious schedule. I mean, even breakfast, shower, and walking the dog is on that list. Why? Well, I’m a disciplined person, I’ve always gotten everything done that needs to get done, but I know myself well enough to remember that I will prioritize everything else first and leave my own magic, healing, and freeing activities until, very often, there’s no time for them at all.

So, yes, my house is super-quiet right now. But if you’re looking for me, I have a bit of an adventure to take. Me and my super-quiet house. I’ll touch base when my schedule frees up (I’m thinking between 10 and 12 and 3 and 4. Oh, and maybe in the evening…). I’ll, as always, let you know how it goes!

Deb: Barb, you have the greatest attitude and it will reward you, I promise. We were empty nesters four years ago, as you know, and it cut to the quick at the beginning, but as I wrote four years ago, it became something else, something sweet, something romantic, something different. We missed Luke every single day, but it started to feel right. It felt like the right time for him and for us. And now these four years later, he is coming home and he is bringing the girl. So I guess the biggest comfort I can be is to say to you, “It will hurt and it will be creative and it will be fixed and it will change and it will hurt you and it will be your saving grace.” Peace with it is what I wish you.

Free Reign In the Summ'a

Barbara: There was a fun article in the Life section of the paper the other day (damned if I can find it to link), looking at the days of yore (ie the seventies and back) and the days of new, and comparing the differences in how children play. I know it’s a well-addressed theme—we got to play wherever and however we wanted and today’s kids are cloistered and over-protected—but still, I thought it would be fun to ask about your experiences and share our childhood memories … since it is summ'a, after all!!

Yeah, yeah, I am old enough to be from the generation of Free Play. When I think back to my childhood, I have vivid memories of hours and hours spent exploring the woods that abutted our suburban house. It was a large tract of land clearly slated for future development, but which languished in my time in wild, thorny, and verdant splendour. Hard dirt paths carved through the woods, ample clue that they were popular with more than just this curious 9-year-old child. But I don’t remember ever seeing anyone. I could take an entire artillery of flotsam with me—Barbie dolls, sand pails, plastic animals—and create new and amazing worlds in those woods. I could invent stories rife with travesty and betrayal and magic and deep abiding love. I could lie amid thigh-high grasses and just inhale the dry, hot, wildflower fragrance. I never worried about “strangers”; I cherished the bright rays of the sun; I didn’t imagine the possibility of fierce animals or broken bones or helplessness. I know I must have played in these woods with my friends, but strangely, that’s not what I remember. The memories that linger of this carefree time are the ones of me alone, responsible to no one, utterly unrestrained.

And then times changed and I grew up and so did the world and our fears and our woes. And I had my own children and had to make a choice (or choiceS: choice after choice after choice) on how we would raise them. Sadly, I couldn’t risk allowing them to utter abandon. On the one hand, I don’t agree with the mother in the article who laments, “The world is a different place!” It is in many ways, but not, I don’t think, in the pure mathematical logic of more psychopaths—because that’s who we fear when we fear the “stranger”. I imagine that the odds are about the same (with the exception, maybe, of a slightly higher population affecting the pure amount of them). On the other hand, I completely relate to the father who says something like, “But I can’t risk my child being the one child.” So I never walked the street without holding a hand and I never let them out of my sight (and so never lost them). That said, I was always aware of a kind of childhood injustice when it came to their freedom—the freedom necessary, in my opinion, to develop their imaginations and curiosity and problem-solving skills.

I asked the girls about how it was to grow up the way they did … and their answers surprised me. They have their own sweet memories of childhood abandon. For them, it was sweet summer days spent in the backyard creating worlds in their sandbox or in our garden. It was cold winter hours in the “mess” of a basement where we allowed their toys to have their own sort of wild free reign. They say they have no dearth of experience when it comes to freedom and independence. Even if I only remember hovering at the kitchen window making sure they were safe outside or tracking their basement safety from upstairs. Maybe a kid’s always gonna do what a kid’s gotta do!

What is your experience of childhood play—is it carefree abandon or cloistered restriction?

Deb: Mine was a combination of both, I would say. My parents certainly wanted to know where I was, but we were allowed to run free in the fields, and up at the cottage we spent endless hours by the creek, in the forest, and in the farmer’s field. We had a huge tree on the other side of the creek that we would climb every day as part of our ongoing game of Robin Hood. We would sneak into the abandoned (haunted, to our young imaginations) cottage that we were told not to enter but did anyway. Walks to “Big Rock” for the big climb and picking wild raspberries were all part of the daily fun. Our parents were secure in the knowledge that we would come home for meals, which we always did.

I will have to ask the boy if he had any such adventures that I did not know about. Sadly I was not as cool a parent when I became a Mom. I was, I am ashamed to admit, too worried about his safety to let go too too much. But I think the boy would tell tales of tobogganing on the big hill, building snow forts, and climbing the next-door neighbour’s tree. The toughest and best thing I ever did was letting go enough for him to have camp experiences. After one session, I settled into letting go and trusting that he was going to be okay. Also, having a pool has adventure built in and I think he remembers it that way. I hope the fact that I walked him to school till he was shaving does not colour his memories of childhood abandon! :-)

Phil sent me this and I had to include it. Credits, anyone???

Family Celebration Reimagined

Barbara: When I was growing up, the big event celebrations—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays—were all lovely, relatively low-key gatherings. We usually celebrated just the five of us (my parents and two younger sisters), with very rare visits from my grandparents or aunts, uncles, and cousins (who lived across the country). As that’s all I knew, that was fine by me: holidays were intimate affairs where food was a wonderful main feature. As my mom is an excellent cook, this tradition nurtured my own love of a delicious meal on a holiday.

I also remember with vivid detail the elaborate machinations when I was a child of the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. Like one Easter morning when every person in my family was gathered in our den—and all of a sudden the crystalline tinkle of a bell rang out from the far-off living room! I scanned the den in disbelief and counted my mother and father and sisters. All were there and so not possibly responsible for the ringing bell—yes, at 8, I still totally believed, but part of me must have thought that an adult hand was involved in the holiday magic, otherwise why was I so earnestly scanning the room? But, with all persons accounted for, the ringing bell MUST have been the Easter Bunny! As an adult, and still amazed at this magical feat, I had to ask my father how this happened. Turns out he’d rigged a wire from one room to the other, hid it behind his back and tugged on it, ringing it to signal the arrival of the Bunny Himself. My dad knew I’d be on the lookout, so no convolution was too elaborate for him. How do I love this man. (PS, yes, a little part of my adult self was secretly disappointed when there was a logical explanation for this magical ringing *shrug*)

When Phil and I got married and started our own family, holidays meant holiday pilgrimages—either we would schlep the hundreds of kilometers to be with one parent or another, or they would schlep to us. Suddenly the little 5-person holiday tete-a-tete expanded to include an increasing amount of beloveds: our siblings married and had their own families and our parents remarried and brought their new mates into the fold. One unforgettable Christmas featured 3 sets of parents, including 2 exes, 3 siblings and their spouses, and our babies. It was crowded but wonderful!

Every year since then, we’ve tried, at the very least, to share the holidays with at least one other family, either one of our parents and their second spouses, or a sister or brother and their families. Holiday dinners are lively and noisy and packed.

And then there’s this year. This year, our younger daughter couldn’t get home for Easter (various extenuating circumstances). It’s one thing to not be able to celebrate a feast day with extended family, but to not have our own child at home? I mean, we all agreed to the situation going in. We understood it was all good and right and for the best (in fact, as a result of staying in Montreal, she was able to celebrate a rare Passover with my mom and her husband—a lucky result of the timing matching up for both celebrations). And the rest of the extended family had other Easter commitments. Thankfully, one sister and her husband and my niece and nephew were able to come over for Saturday dinner, and so we held an early and honourary Easter dinner, with several delicious courses of food and quite a bit of revelry (including a ribald game of Pictionary over dessert where certain adults—okay, Phil and I—had to keep reminding themselves—okay, ourselves—that the niece and nephew are still, you know, children!!)

Easter brunch. I'm on the phone with Michele!  

And then there were three. Easter Sunday was quiet: just Phil, Stefanie, and me. We ate a late brunch and did some chores and then ate a lovely dinner and watched some movies. Yes, it was quiet; yes, I missed my baby; yes, it was changed. For the first time, no noisy table, no elaborate Easter egg hunt, no complicated menu. But it was intimate and sweet. It was also incredibly easy. I think maybe because we accepted our new and changing situation, we made sure to make it, in its own unique way, special.

Deb: I think we are adaptable. Humans are adaptable. Barbara, your memories of family gatherings past are wonderful. We come to expect a certain vibe, don’t we? A certain number of people, a certain succession of events. We count on this to make our holidays the way we have remembered them. We need these things to remain the same. And then we have a surprising delight like you had yesterday and we realize that it can be delightful. We have adapted and found the joy in the new configuration. This is a lesson I have learned in spades over these last few years. The things that were norm are now the new norm. The things I did not think could ever change or would ever change ... have changed. And it is special. Each time it changes. Special and new. 

Mother Hen Nit-Picker

Barbara: So I thought it would just be about being sad and stuff. But the worst of that passed after about the first week. Here’s the biggest challenge I am having since my daughter left for college. Cutting the apron strings without also severing arteries.

If you want to know the truth: I’m not proud to tell you. Not even excited. I don’t need a good hug. But in this stream-of-consciousness, speaking-from-the-heart, this-is-the-truth-right-now-but-that-truth-might-change-the-next-minute blog thing that we do over here, that’s the truth of where I am right now this minute. Could be way different tomorrow. I just need to vent. And seriously, I just need to get over myself.

You know all the stuff I said about how close I am with my daughters? So imagine how devastating it is when every time I get off the phone with her, we’ve just waged another battle over something or other. Epic battles, I tell you. We who usually see things so much the same are now at (virtual, over-the-phone) loggerheads over everything, from how late she stays up to how she spends her days. She keeps reminding me that she is the same person with the same morals and the same standards as always, and I keep envisioning that slippery slope that all parents at some point face, where their child turns into this unrecognizable creature with really strange and awful habits. Of course, it CAN happen. We’ve all seen that too. Kids can go off the rails for any number of reasons. But I promised myself (and you) that I wouldn’t live the future ills, I would deal with stuff as it comes, live in the now, not panic about shit that might never happen, not imagine worst-case scenarios.

I’m sure she’s going through her own version of bloodletting string-cutting right now, but I have to leave her to it… Because I have no choice. She’s not coming home to me every night where I can, even surreptitiously, touch her cheek and know she’s not sick, see her eyes and know she’s getting enough sleep, or hug her regardless of which one of us needs it.

I phoned her with a mea culpa last night. I promised I would let her earn her triumphs and make her mistakes. I would try not to wage battle with the deadliest of maternal weapons: “worry”, “fear”, “disappointment”, “dread”.

Wish me luck. Because this is the hard part. Way harder than being sad.

Deb: Oh Barb. I know. They are excruciating growing pains that hurt so much; you think you are permanently damaged. I have felt these myself in recent months as I come to terms with a grown man son. There have been changes in our demeanor but not in our love. And every time I see our relationship shift, I have to remember that. Not clinging, but connecting. And shifting. Yeah. Shifting is the toughest. Shifting is what has been hurting and confusing me. I remember my Mum saying when the boy was baby, “Don’t dwell, because as soon as you do, he will have moved to another phase”. Well said, Mum. So I’m not. Cause he will. Thanks.

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. 

Me, Luke and Harry

Deb: I drove up to the boy’s camp last Friday to take him and his fellow counsellor and girlfriend to see Harry Potter. They have been together for over three years now and we adore her. She is like family to us.

It was their day off and we were doing the movie and dinner and then I was to drive them back to camp and then I’d drive home. With my new Dick Van Dyke audio biography on CD, the prospect of a long day of driving did not seem daunting at all. I thought it would be fun, and it was. I only panicked about being lost twice. Down from my usual six panics.

It was to be the end of a lovely journey, this last viewing of the Potter. Like many of you, my soon-to-be 21-year-old boy has grown up with Harry. We read the first three books to him, and then he read one himself. Then last year, disappointed with himself for not reading them all, he challenged himself to read each one through the spring and summer, which he is doing. His girlfriend is a devotee and has read them all and knows them like the back of her hand.

So it was a trip we all very much looked forward to taking. But in my heart, I was on a slightly different journey. The prospect of Harry ending just as the boy turns 21 led me smack up against his coming of age. As I drove the winding country roads on the way to camp, my mind ventured back to sweet memories of curling up in his tiny bed reading about Hogwarts and kid wizards and watching him fall asleep with visions of sorting hats hovering above his head.

And as Harry matured with each book, each film, so did our boy. Which is why the last film was so poignant for me. I knew it would be emotional, but I had no idea I would start to well up as soon as FEATURE ATTRACTION blazed across the screen. I have sat through many a moving film with the boy. He is always so tender with me. As soon as he hears even a sniffle from my general direction, his arm is around me comforting me, making me feel safe to cry and show my emotions. And the Deathly Hallows Part 2 did not disappoint in that regard. By the end, I was sobbing shamelessly. So was Megan. And he comforted her and made her feel okay about it. Didn’t turn in my direction even once.

As it should be.

Thank you Harry, for everything. Luke’s all grown up too.

Barbara: It’s a big moment when a devoted son turns to his girl over his mother. As you say, Deb: as it should be. But still. It’s a turning point. And this is why Harry Potter is so poignant for so many of us. It is chalk full of turning points.

I was one of those moms who read the series to my kids, curled up in bed together. And the girls loved it. Even when they were young teens. That said, we did stop at the fifth installment because by that time they were both such avid readers, the draw of crawling into their own beds with the latest tome and reading through all in one go was too strong to resist. Plus there was all that requisite comparing of story points with other eager readers that needed to be done. Without me.

My misgiving is that because I stopped reading to them, I also never read those last two books. There were just too many other books on my reading pile that I HAD to read. And so I also didn’t see the last three films. I’m one of those people that has to read the book before I see the film. So now I find myself at the end of an era, both my girls feeling nostalgic and bittersweet about how much they’ve been through in exact correlation to how much the Potter kids have been through (without the, you know, quidditch, butter beer, magic and he-who-would-not-be-named). I feel a bit out of the loop. Hate to say it. Hate to admit it. But I lost the rhythm. The rhythm of Generation HP, as it were.

This is what I want to do: I want to curl up with my kids and watch all 7 movies, maybe not all in one go, but certainly all in one week, then see the last one (which is supposed to be wonderful) in all its 3-D glory in the movie theatre. And then I want to reflect on significant turning points both near and dear to my heart and as far off as a little place called Hogwarts.