There is nothing I love more than the sounds of my children and their friends chatting and giggling throughout the house. I am a sucker for this. Through the years, I have encouraged my kids to use our house as a home base; their friends are always welcome, with a few important caveats, to have parties, sleepovers, or more informal gatherings. I am quick to offer to make large casseroles and baked goodies to feed the masses. We have hosted hockey team dinners, turned our basement into a nightclub, functioned as a safe haven on New Year’s Eve, and marked many birthdays. The pulse of our lives beat merrily in syncopated rhythm, and I loved it.
Last fall, my youngest headed out the door to pursue college life, leaving a huge void in my house and my heart. Luckily, I began empty nest life with knee surgery, having torn a meniscus moving her into her dorm. By the time I was up and walking again, the quiet, cavernous home seemed less daunting. Nonetheless, going cold turkey after fifteen years of solid kid-centric living, my husband and I assumed an odd type of codependency--like King Lear and his fool. Thus we set out to reinvent our lives, reverting to the simpler, leaner times reminiscent of our pre-parenting days, when it was just the two of us.
Adjustment took many forms. Most significantly, we transformed dinnertime into a cozier gathering. When the kids were still at home—one vegan and the other a fussy eater—I would often plan a many-layered meal designed to appeal to the many tastes and diet preferences around the table. Now, my husband and I are content to eat a hearty bowl of soup or chicken chili, sometimes paired with a simple salad or sandwich. I designed an array of condiments (chipotle, horseradish or pesto mayonnaise, for example) and maintain jars of home-made goodies (roasted peppers, marinated olives, sauces) to dress up mundane ingredients into gourmet treats. A lot of our meals can now be made ahead and simply reheated or assembled at dinnertime, which bestows on mealtime a more relaxed gestalt. We are much more likely to open a bottle of wine with dinner as well.
I realized that I was no longer going upstairs or down to the basement, so I moved my computer to the upstairs office to ensure that I used the full square footage of the house on a regular basis. Once up there, I could not help myself: I redecorated my daughter’s room, hopeful that she would find it a welcome retreat when she returned for the holidays. After that creative burst spread into a mini-bathroom makeover, I became conscious that I was setting a dangerous precedent; I shut myself down. On the other hand, with the kids gone I appreciate that this area of the house now stays perpetually clean and neat. Every time I walk by my kids’ rooms, I enjoy the fact that the beds are made and the floors are visible.
In the absence of the children, my attention turned to my workaholic husband, also badly in need of a little renovation. To break his unhealthy pattern, we decided to designate one night each week as a work-free evening, planning simple activities—a trip to the mall or grocery, a movie, or just a simple dinner date—to enjoy together. In addition, we converted many of his hectic business trips to “together” trips, extending them through the weekend for an opportunity to enjoy and indulge. For the first time in a very long time, our lives assumed a comfortable rhythm.
Just as we were becoming quite practiced at this new way of life—clearly measurable in our systolic pressure readings—something devastating occurred: the kids came home for the holidays. In a matter of hours, the house was filled with bodies in motion flying up and down two flights of stairs. There were suitcases blocking the front door, coats and shoes thrown randomly in the main entrance and the mudroom, piles of clothing covering the floors, doors left open, dishes stacked in the sink. At least three televisions were on. Electronic devices of every conceivable brand and size were attached to chargers and outlets everywhere, our electrical blueprint resembling an addict’s circulatory system with nary a vein left to tap. There wasn’t enough food or the right type of food. Then, with a flash, the kids were gone and so were the cars. It was as if nothing had changed.
My husband and I persevered for the next three weeks. Certainly, we want our children to feel comfortable; we want them to “come home”. Someday they will be more considerate of their parents, more appreciative of the springboard we provide for their lives. That is a lesson for another day. In the meantime, I love that wonderful holiday feeling, when the house is filled with seasonal smells, a roaring fire, your closest friends and family. It fills my soul to hear my adult children evoke the sounds of their younger egos, giggling between themselves conspiratorially. I enjoy being needed to shop for some new essential, or to cook up the favorite homemade dishes they have been craving. The disruption of the new rhythm of our lives is at once annoying and yet oddly welcome.
And it is over all too soon. As tumultuously as they arrived, so they depart—leaving behind a thousand loose ends that must be laundered, stored, or mailed back to them. With a final hug, they say what they have left unsaid, and then turn toward the lives that beckon them. My husband and I wonder, as they disappear into airport security, whether we have done enough for them. Then we turn, reminded in that moment, how glad we are to have each other.
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