EMPTYING THE NEST

A friend once said, “Don’t wish for a clean house, Lauri. A clean house is an empty house.” There are some of you who will be facing an empty house at the end of the summer. I understand the conflicting emotions of heartbreak and excitement. You have raised your child, loved, disciplined, encouraged, comforted, driven to soccer games, been a cheerleader, watched band concerts, and stocked the refrigerator. You have been awakened at 2 a.m. by size eleven feet pounding down the stairs, heard the freezer open, dishes clang, and feet running back up the stairs, no doubt hands cradling a bowl of ice cream. You have lain awake for the rest of the night, unable to fall back asleep, and probably wishing you, too, could indulge in a 2 a.m. bowl of Blue Bell Moo-llennium Crunch! You have performed the weekly roundup of glasses and cups left in their room, and located all the missing spoons. But now, you are sitting on their bed in an empty room and having a well-deserved cry.

Still ahead, some of you will make the trip to Freshman Orientation camp at your son or daughter’s college of choice. You will drop them off into a frenzied crowd of freshman, with their suitcase, pillow and cellphone. If you are like me, you will have to pull over on the highway and have a good cry before driving home to an empty and quiet house. Then there is college move-in day, fitting everything you can into your car leaving just enough space to see out your rear-view mirror. You will arrive at the dorm hoping someone has thought to bring a hand cart. You will help them set up their room and watch for the signs of “It’s ok, Mom, I’ve got this, you can go now,” or better yet, “I’m going to miss you so much, Mom. I love you and I’ll call every weekend, I promise!”

This is what you raised them to do, leave the nest, spread their wings, and fly. But the cutting of the apron string hurts. I know, I became an empty nester in 2017. I had been through it twice already, navigating campuses, finding the dorm, unloading the car, wishing I hadn’t made a fuss about buying new comforters and pillows. Wondering did I do enough, say enough, support her enough, prepare her enough? Then looking through the rear-view mirror, watching her wave goodbye from the sidewalk in front of her dorm until she was out of sight.

For me, the consolation prize to this painful final cut of the apron string, was a new car. It was time to retire the old van. Again, tears flowed as I prepared the van for sale, discovering a sun-dried banana peel tucked into the pocket behind the passenger seat, hair bows, tiny Star Wars Lego pieces, a single gold fish cracker, and years of spilled Coca Cola and hot cocoa stains on the carpet. 

But what was truly poignant for me was a text from my son that I received this week, eight years after he left the nest, “Cleaning out the car and having bitter-sweet memories about all the experiences with it. Thanks for giving it to me when I was in school and stressed out about everything in life. And thanks for driving us to games every weekend in it, getting it stinky with our cleats.” This is a text all parents long to receive, some understanding of the bitter-sweet emotions of the empty nest process and some gratitude for our parenting. My heart is full, though my nest is empty.

Ode to a Minivan

Oh, my Black Pearl Honda Odyssey

I am so grateful for your ten years

and 150,000 miles of service

on journeys from Atlantic to Pacific

transporting precious cargo

Three beautiful brown-eyed siblings

off to school, band practice, and soccer games

napping, singing, and teasing

watching movies on your DVD

driving to and from victories and losses

soccer shin guards and socks rank with sweat

Carpet stained with cocoa, coffee, and Coca Cola

long forgotten goldfish, hairbows, and Legos

overloaded with deliveries of Boy Scout mulch

heavy laden with college essentials

to Texas Universities: A&M, UT, and UH

Glancing over my shoulder

at smiling faces and sleeping faces

cherished and treasured

now empty seats

full of sweet memories

Brave As Thistles ©2023 by Lauri Cruver Cherian

*Published in the Facts, Brazos Life August 27, 2023