Anticipating the Empty Nest

Eli is away at a three-week program sponsored by Stanford University for high school students interested in math and science. He’s taking an intensive class in topology, something esoteric and mathy that has to do with studying the surface of knots. I have no idea whatsoever what they’re studying. Or why. But Eli chose it and it’s clear he’s having fun. He sounds confident and full of himself.

I miss him terribly.

Lately, I’ve been walking around looking at mothers and fathers with their toddlers and infants, mothers with children in playgrounds, and I realize how very long it’s been since I was a hands-on mother in that 24/7 kind of way.

Eli has been away for two weeks so far. In all that time, it has never once occurred to him to phone home. He has only texted back to me only because I couldn’t stand it and texted him, breaking one of the cardinal rules of letting go your children. Let them go. Fat chance.

I know it is inevitable and appropriate that your children leave you. I know it is a sign of good parenting for your child to lose interest in you, utterly, for a good number of years, and certainly 17 is in that span of years. Still, it stung that it never once occurred to him to want to talk to us. To me.

Texting just is not very satisfying. I wanted to hear his voice. Like a mantra, I kept telling myself, “Let him be. Don’t write to him.” But I was Jonesing for him and couldn’t help myself. So that first week, I’d send just a line, “How’s your day?” or a bit of news from home. Once I texted and said, “We’re all here. Call us,” and he called.

I was sitting by a fire in the backyard when Lizzy brought the phone to me. I listened to the high, happy excitement in his voice, and while I was talking to him, in those very moments, I was aware of the sadness that soon I wouldn’t be talking to him. Every millisecond I heard his voice was beautiful, but poignant and sad because he will be going off to college in a year, we don’t know where, but most likely far away because that is where he’s looking. And although I’ve gone away for three weeks at a time from him, from all of them, and rarely looked back, being the one left at home, by a boy who is not a boy but a young man, who will soon leaving for good, or so we think, is a whole different experience. Soon I will be no more than the dust beneath his feet. Next summer he will be leaving. Lizzy, who used to be the baby of the family, is starting high school two months from now. She is sophisticated and independent and shapely and smart and she hides her real life from me. I as her go-to person. NOT!

The writing is on the wall, screaming clear as day, that the identity that has been my rock and my purpose for 18 years is coming to an end. I am feeling anticipatory grief. The empty nest before the nest is actually empty. I am feeling empty. I am not one of these parents with a whole list of gleeful plans for when my kids are gone.

I can’t imagine achieving this transition from hands-on parent to long-distance friend? Consultant? Advisor? Memory? with any kind of grace. I’m already clutching at the train as it’s pulling out of the station, wondering who I will be and what I will do and what life will be like when my biggest purpose and greatest service and deepest love is behind me.

Last week, I went walking with a friend. Her son is 21 and her daughter 18. The daughter is lost and struggling and unhappy at home. Her son, when he first went off to college was miserable and called his mother three times a day. Finally he quit the first school and ultimately ended up somewhere that was a much better fit. “Now I don’t hear from him,” my friend said, “and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”

So is that the real picture of success? A child is so happily launched and so digging his own life that you, I, we’re talking about me here, becomes an insignificant backdrop?

Well, what did I expect? How often did I think about my mother when I was 19? 21? 23? 30 years old? Did I dread her phone calls or look forward to them? Was she at the top of my list of someone I wanted to share my life with? Need I answer? I’m sure you can guess.

Does anyone make this change gracefully? Easily? Painlessly? Just glide from one stage of parenting into the next?

This past Sunday was the day families get to visit Eli’s summer program, so Karyn and Lizzy and I drove up to Stanford and rode around in circles until we found the frat house that is Eli’s temporary home. We brought him the pillow and the shampoo and conditioner he’d requested. He gave me a quick hug and then Lizzy, our composed, sophisticated Lizzy, flew down the path and leaped into his arms. They walked 30 feet ahead of us, chattering happily together, while we oldsters lagged behind.

Once we got into the car to find something to eat, El and Lizzy sat in the backseat and Eli gave her a logic problem that I couldn’t even begin to follow: There are 100 prisoners standing in a line. Each one is given a white hat or a black hat by the warden. The prisoners can’t see the color of the hat on their own head, but they can see and remember the colors of all the hats in front of them, and they can hear and remember every word they hear perfectly. When it is each prisoner’s turn, they get to say just one word. If they name the color of their hat correctly, they live, and if they say the wrong color, they are instantly killed. The question was, “How many prisoners can be consistently saved? And how?”

I lost the thread of the puzzle after the first sentence, but Eli and Lizzy bantered back and forth for the half hour it took us to find a place to eat. Just before we reached the restaurant, Lizzy proclaimed the answer triumphantly. I couldn’t track their conversation, or the logic, at all. (Even after they explained it to me in detail, making a diagram on a piece of newspaper at the restaurant, I still barely got it, but just in case you were wondering, the answer is that 99 of the prisoners can be saved, every time, and it had something to do with odds and even numbers.)

While Karyn ate her eggs florentine and I nibbled on my roasted eggplant/red pepper/fresh mozzarella Panini, it was clear to both of us that we’d been left in the dust, but it was a happy dust, because we could look at our children and smile, thinking the very same thing, “Look how much they love each other.”

After brunch, the four of us wandered the streets of Palo Alto. We ended up in a park and Eli taught us a new word game called, “Contact,” and being a word person, I was suddenly back in the competition. After we played a few rounds, it got too hot, so we drove to an IMAX movie theatre in San Jose to see Eclipse, which was so bad it was good, if you know what I mean.

At 6:00, we dropped Eli back at Stanford. He was ready to go back to physics problems and math sets, games of Go, logic puzzles, and King’s Table. He’d clearly enjoyed his reunion with his sister, and we were….well…the means of getting her there.

I know it’s stupid to miss Eli when I’m with him, but maybe I have a stupid gene where mother love is concerned.

Driving home over 17, wired on two cups of Joe, I couldn’t help but think of the woman I met last week whose son died, in a solo wreck, two weeks before he was to leave for college. He swerved to avoid a deer, and being an inexperienced driver, smashed into a tree. “I can’t bear to hear anyone complain about their children,” she said to me. “They still have children to complain about.”

And here I sit, feeling my pre-grief at the inevitable launch of a healthy child. Maybe I should keep a picture of her son on my desktop so I can remember what I still have and how sometimes love is the same thing as letting go.

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About letting go and the empty nest.
written by Garia Gant, July 07, 2010

What a beautifully written story about the process of letting go. You let me see your process and feelings as well as giving enough information about Eli to let me see (or imagine) his process and feelings. Quite a gift this early in the morning. Thank you

none
written by patty freedman, July 07, 2010

I haven't read your blog for awhile, but today's struck a note with me. I have three kids. The two older both stayed home while in college, and they are both still very close, but my third (my baby, as I call him when he isnt around) left for college two years ago at the young age of 17. (fall birthday) The tears welled up in my eyes and i couldn't talk, but i knew i had to pull it together for him. For days after he left I wanted to cry all the time. This was my baby, and I definately was entering a different time of my life. Yes, I got the occasional call, but texting was my savior. It is not like talking and hearing their voice, but a quick "HI" on my cell phone screen became a highlight in my day. smilies/sad.gif

Little by little, i would feel better, and finally, everything seemed to get back to some form of normalcy. Then, he came home for a three day weekend. I was soooo excited, but the weekend went way too fast, and I had to say goodbye again. This started the whole sad process over again. Its been two years now, and he is home where he belongs for the summer. Its wonderful having all the family around, but come september, we will have to say goodbye again. I know i will be sad, but it has definately gotten easier. It has been such a wonderful experience for him, and he has become so self sufficient, and grown up. My other kids are now too, but at 19, they were totally dependent on us. Even though I miss him when he is at school, it has been a great opportunity for him, and we are so proud. Even though we miss them, it is truly a gift to let them go. He just better not move anywhere far away when he is out of school!

letting go
written by shelly, July 07, 2010

Beautifully written. The ending is poignant. Ben, now four years old, is at preschool for 5 hours a day, 5 days a week. I am missing him greatly. The letting go process is continual from the moment they leave your body. In small movements and in giant leaps.

New Beginnings
written by Carolyn Burns, July 07, 2010

Wonderful to read others thoughts and feelings on this topic. My eldest child was completing her final secondary year the same year of my cancer treatment. Needless to say it was an 'annus horribilus' but we managed to both get through despite the stress and turmoil. My daughter is now 23 yrs and my son (my baby) is now 21 yrs. Lauren still lives at home but Nathan, being the fiercely independant young man that he is, lives with a couple of friends. I miss him terribly and my heart longs for him. I miss his smell, his smile, his humour, his washing! When he visits I have to resist the temptation to just want to sit and hold him in my arms with my nose buried in his hair. He now has the physique of a man with big strong hands and well defined muscles on his arms. Every time his visits me is a time of joy and then loss when he has to leave. I have found texting quite a useful tool over the years, partly because it is the communication medium that my children are using with their friends and have at times been aware that I can occasionally ask some of the more difficult questions without the 'mother tone' being involved. However whilst my heart longs for the intimate cuddles of my babies, I have discovered that turning 50 has driven me to examine my own life. No longer being a full-time mum and working full-time, I discovered that I needed to visit my inner world for a time. I visited feelings of despair, sadness, fear, resentment and loss. Out of this journey into my inner self has come much knowledge and understanding that the path forward for my peace and health would be to develop my creative life, to express myself outwardly and to find my true identity outside of my mother role. Always a survivor, I am now painting and starting to gain recognition as an artist. What was once latent creativity, has now surfaced and the future looks bright again. I have now given birth to the next phase in my life.

thanks for all the great comments
written by laura Davis, July 08, 2010

I guess this is the true benefit of a blog...this kind of heartfelt sharing!

Summer 10
written by Lise Groleau, July 09, 2010

Great to read Laura! Ian has been away this summer for a 10 day stint immersion trip to Indian lands), back one week, then away for another 3 weeks as a counselor for a summer camp-his first job!
Both of these occasion, he can't have even his cell phone with him. I am picking him up tomorrow.

It has been a process for me as well, letting go. The first 10 days was harder. I am looking forward to seeing him, but its not like he will tell me anything of his experiences. I will have to guess, to observe non-verbal signals.
I find that I also am looking for what is next for me, how I will be when he is away to college next year. It will be a big change. I am experiencing everything you describe at times, but I also feel that there will be a next as well. Perhaps that comes from my intense support of my aging parents, this past few years. Even after a stroke, and the loss of his mate, which he had for 59 years, my father is adjusting to what's next. So I think I will too. I think that I will come to your classes and start to write for one thing.