I have been a mother since August 22, 1992.
That’s thirty-four years this summer.
1992. The Rodney King LA riots. Clinton beat George H.W. Bush and third-party candidate Ross Perot. Barney debuted.
I often joke that I haven’t slept in thirty-four years.
When you’re a mother of four, with ages spanning several decades, you’re juggling multiple non-sleeping states at the same time. Baby bleeds into school years, into teen years, into tracking young adults to make sure their location says they’ve gotten home (or not, and do you know the address where their location says they are?). With a large age gap, you’re nursing while doing a midnight pickup from a party. It’s a blur of stomach bugs, lice, flu, and I forgot to tell you about my term project that’s 50% of my grade due at midnight.
Anyway, I shipped my youngest off to college this August. That slightly annoying term “empty nester” is thrown my way all the time now. Often in awe… “How does it feel to be an empty nester?” But I know they’re sometimes thinking: Geez, she’s been at this for how long?
But this parting with my youngest was different from the others. Not just because he was the last, but because he’s a male. Just turned 18. A man.
No dorm-decorating Pinterest boards. No bemoaning the roommate drama (… roommates… there aren’t enough spaces on the page for that story). Only a bit of misty eye at the drop-off.
So, how do I feel? Weird.
The house is quiet. Clean. I’m not cooking constantly. Doing laundry. Organizing twenty pairs of huge sneakers.
Or worrying. As much.
Yes, I’m occasionally checking that he’s with the other two hundred fifty boys in his all-male dorm. (Which I imagine he’s loving after living with three sisters.)
My son’s college didn’t just do drop-off. It had Welcome Weekend. And he moved in early for sports, so for me, “drop-off” was a five-day visit to the Midwest.
So, I dropped him. And waited. For the parent schedule to start. And that was it. Mostly.
Did I mention? I started the journey to his—in another part of the country—college, like a complete nut. I accidentally drove over the Throggs Neck Bridge twice, then took the Whitestone to get to an airport I’ve gone to my entire life. WTF? I’m a human GPS for all the places I’ve successfully made it to: soccer, football, rugby, theater camp(s), performances… recitals. (… recitals…) And I got lost taking my son to college?
Once I’d dropped him off, he still needed cleats and didn’t participate in the process of getting them, so I bought three pairs—different sizes, different brands—to make sure I got the right ones. (You know, in the Midwest, they still have those great, reasonably priced sporting goods stores that seem to have disappeared in New York. It’s lovely.)
I made about five trips to Target over two days. He participated in only one of those visits, which was not fun. It was like shopping with my husband: Are we done yet? What else do we need? (only towels, sheets, mattress protector… just a few things)
Post drop-off, he doesn’t text me like he used to… In fact, he doesn’t text me at all now. Most annoying, when he does reach out, it’s not to me. It’s to my husband. WTF is that? I’ve always been first.
My friend Jen said, “Yeah, boys do that. They call Dad now.”
Did my husband buy the three pairs of cleats? Or go to Target? Even once? He did persuade my son to let him hook up all those charger things we (I) bought for his dorm room and the fans, and to set up that little shelf I ordered for when he’s in bed (which had very tiny directions in a foreign language). That was helpful. But I think my son is still sleeping on the mattress protector—he refused to put the sheet on the top bunk. (Don’t tell him I told you.)
Did I mention? My husband arrived for Welcome Weekend just for the weekend part. (~Work.) Truthfully, it made this time sooo much easier… he hates going to Target. Etc.
So, my son called me for twelve minutes the other day. We chatted, and I tried not to hover, judge, or ask questions. And he talked. It was so nice. But as we wrapped up, I said: “Oh, wait, let me get Daddy on the phone so you can say hi to him too.” Of course, my son told me: “We spoke already. I called him first, and he told me to call you.” WTF?!?
He also seems to rely on his older sisters for advice now. (So cute. I think they have their own sibs chat.)
But I’ve been made redundant. (TBH, I’m tearing up.)
IDK why it took me so long to write about this. It’s been weeks since Welcome Weekend. Heck, I have so much free time now.
Things I’m enjoying with so much time on my hands: flossing my teeth, taking my makeup off properly each night, and having time to focus on myself. (I’ve lost nine pounds, mostly by taking the time to actually look at what I’m eating.)
At Welcome Weekend, they told us: You’ve prepared your child for this. They’re in the school’s hands. I suppose they’re experts at this by now. Me too. Thirty-four years.
Oh, and I just thought of another thing I do all the time now: walking the dog. Maybe that’s part of the nine pounds?
I’m also having a bit more time to reflect. (After I cleaned out every room in the house and gave away an embarrassing number of old prom dresses, black sports shorts, and shoes… kids have so much stuff.)
I am ready for another era, but I still feel funny about all these emotions. It’s weird (that word) to be in a place where I can reflect. The cause-and-effect history of my experiment in parenting.
Oh, another thing. I also have time for MY FRIENDS!! (The best.)
In his introductory speech to the parents, the dorm chaplain suggested checking in with your child as often as you might check your tire pressure. Unfortunately, my car has a setting for that, so I check my tire pressure every time I get in the car. But I get his point. It’s time to separate. Time to trust my thirty-four years of hard labor.
I am an empty nester.
Xo Christie