Emptying the Nest

By Marilyn Kentz
Bio

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Every time one of my kids left home, it broke my heart. But when the baby goes—the last one—it’s just so-o-o-o empty.

In my case, the last to go was the vasectomy-reversal baby. That’s right. I asked my husband to get a vasectomy, then I changed my mind. I was 38, and my first midlife crisis was beginning. At that same time, my boys were just about to become nasty teenagers. So, when I was 38, I successfully pushed my little daughter into this busy world and bought myself 18 more years of motherhood.

We had an extra special bond. I think it’s because I taught her to be just like me—shallow. I took her shopping, taught her to judge her teacher’s mood by their shoes, taught her how to mix and match the expensive items with cheap stuff and how to make everyone think you have thick hair.

We got along so very well and I was lucky to keep her as my ‘best friend’ through what other mothers called those horrible teenage years. Don’t get jealous—that was God’s gift since I had so many wild incidences with the older brother! It was payback.

So you can only imagine how overanxious I got every year my little one got closer to graduation. I was lamenting, waking up in the middle of the night, crying over love songs (yes, love songs) many years before ordering that cap and gown. I was neurotic with a capital “N”. I’m sure my poor friends must have been thinking, “Oh, forgodsakes, get over it.” I can imagine the under-the-breath, “Oh no, here comes Miss What-Will-I Do-Without-Baby—quick, look the other way.”

On graduation day, with tears streaming down my face as I ironed her gown, I pitifully faced the end.

Surprisingly, on the day we took her to college, I was doing fine. I guess I had done the correct amount of preparation or crying or antidepressants. Sure, there were moments in Ikea when I would get a strong twinge of fear and sadness, but I did what most married women do: I concentrated on how irritating my husband was. (That’s a handy tip for those who still have to look forward to the ‘last goodbye’.)
 
On the ride home, I was shocked at how easy it all went. But just as the sun was going down and the shadows were stretching eastward, I got this notion that, once that sun disappeared, it was really over. This was the very last day I was mommy—and I had only a few minutes left. My heart started racing. I was trying to bargain with life. “No, I’m not ready after all!” As the shadows were intensifying, so was my longing. And right at that moment, the song on the radio unraveled me. Carol King began asking…“So far away…. Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?” The tears just shot out. It was like I was vomiting out of my eyes. Every piece of sorrow I had been ‘handling’ came up and out.

So I got out my emergency Xanax. Wailed some more. Then opened the emergency vodka. All the way home it was Weep—Xanax, Weep—Vodka. Six hours later, I arrived home feeling just as I had hoped to feel—numb. I fell into bed.

The next morning, I mustered up my courage and went into her empty room. Do you know what I discovered?

Cool things she left behind. Wonderful items I had given her—and some she had taken from me. I took them out and started decorating.

Nothing perks up a shallow woman faster than decorating.


 

Written by eldering at Fearless Aging

Tagged with: crisis midlife motherhood