Two days ago, I farewelled my middle child who was embarking on the greatest adventure of her life—moving to live and work in London. If I said I hadn’t been eagerly awaiting this day, I’d be lying. From the time each of my children turned 18, I’ve been looking forward to having an empty nest.
I couldn’t understand parents who were mourning this new state of freedom in their lives. Didn’t they love not having to pick up, clean up, nag at, plead with their adult child?
But, many of you will protest, “My child went off to college at 18.” Unfortunately, in Australia, we don’t have this happy tradition. Very few city dwelling kids leave to attend college in another city altogether. This is partly due to the geography of this continent—the same size as the contiguous United States—and partly to the demographics—we have a population of only 21 million. And 85% of that measly 21 million people live in the most densely populated 1% of the continent, clinging to the eastern coastline.
Here endeth the school lesson, but I’m sure you can see from these figures, Tertiary education for the majority of Aussie kids isn’t all that far from home. More’s the pity. L
All efforts to move my children out of home have fallen on deaf ears, exacerbated by their father who’d be only too happy for them to stay forever, along with assorted spouses they might gather along the way, and resultant children of their own!
It took me several years to realize I’d made a huge blunder in announcing that there’d be no boomerang children in our household. Once they left, that was it! The locks were being changed, all their cr*p was going with them, or to the tip if they left it behind, and I’d be happy to see them on a weekly basis.
The problem was, they knew I was serious, so they refused to move out. None of them wanted to waste “dead money” on rent and I had to agree with them.
Consequently, our home, although large, was filling daily with their possessions, the worst offender being daughter #1. Her stuff not only crammed her own bedroom but spilled out into the playroom and bathroom adjoining it. It flowed down the stairs and into my study, the family room, the unused formal dining room and the spare room which unofficially became her study in an effort to curb her need to mark her territory. I was at my wits end tripping over all this rubbish while her father seemed to revel in how “homey” our house was.
Finally, in desperation, I went condo hunting for her, found the perfect location, and ensured it was large enough to accommodate all her stuff.
I signed the contract (we have the same name) called her up and said, “Congratulations, you’re now the proud owner of your own home. When are you moving out?”
After she recovered from the shock (and realised I wasn’t kidding), she promptly put in tenants. It wasn’t until a year ago that she finally made the move into her own home (aged 27). What a joyous day that was! It took several weeks to completely move all her rubbish (er, possessions) to her new home, including 3 huge moving boxes full of shoes! Imelda Marcus had nothing on her.
And last week, I was eagerly counting the hours until #2’s plane soared into the skies, leaving me with only one more child to dispose of –er, make that—encourage to soar with the eagles (cough).
That was, until she was saying goodbye to our Lab, and it suddenly struck me, she might never see Freddie again.
This was it. Final! She’d said she was leaving forever and until that moment, I’d been happy with her decision, excited for her, delighted that her lovely Dutch boyfriend would be meeting up with her in London to help her find a flat.
Suddenly overcome with emotion, I wanted to plead with her to stay, just a little longer. Surely at 24, she was too young to be leaving home forever?
As I watched her plane disappear into the clouds, I felt as if a family member had died, I was so bereft. Back home, the house was silent, yet only hours earlier had been filled with her happy chatter, her excitement at seeing her boyfriend after so many months apart, what she’d do in London, the places she’d visit in Europe during her holidays.
Even Freddie’s joyful, waggy-tailed greeting at our return from the airport couldn’t lift my spirits. I hugged our son rather enthusiastically when he arrived home from work that evening. He looked startled. I couldn’t voice why I’d done, it, I was still too choked up.
I suppose I’ll eventually get used to my middle child not being here, but in the meantime, it’s made me realise that maybe empty nests aren’t so great after all?
How do you feel about empty nests? Do you have one? Are you looking forward to having one? How did you cope?
CC
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