My nest is empty and I've suddenly become sympathetic to bereft mother birds everywhere. Seriously, somebody needs to take up a collection for some lovely birdhouses where these poor creatures can meet to weep together, share seeds, and flap their feathers in shared grief.
My children were born just over eight years apart. A perfect boy and his equally perfect little sister. It was wonderful, the bookends of our experience allowing each of them to live the spoiled idyllic life of an only child yet with one magical decade in the middle where the four of us enjoyed one another immensely. No measurable sibling rivalry, an adoring built-in babysitter for Aubrey, a little girl who thought (and pretty much still believes) her big brother is the greatest thing since sliced bread, only one horrible FAFSA form at a time, and two very content parents. Truly blessed.
Though reasonably tall, my daughter is a slight thing. The waist of her jeans more like doll clothing as I processed her laundry these past years. (An observation while folding which often spurred me to dream up ways to add more protein to her vegetarian diet.) But let me just say, her itty-bitty frame deceives. Because since this little girl departed for college last week, she has left a hole in our home which feels more like a giant sucking abyss.
It is an ache which recurs in the most unexpected ways. Realizing there is no reason to be quiet as I catch myself habitually tiptoeing to the shower in the morning... finding a partially-used bottle of her hazelnut coffee creamer in the refrigerator...consoling the despairing cat as she paces the floor howling mournfully and races up to my daughter's abandoned bedroom AGAIN to look for the girl who has devotedly loved her furry face for twelve years... emptying her hamper for the last time until fall break (I ask you...who would have thought this could be sad?)... passing by the stupid red-hatted Travelocity gnome in the front garden - a ridiculous inanimate gnome which Aubrey has inexplicably named "Javier."...
Don't get me wrong, Aubrey is precisely where she needs to be. We are so proud of her. She has gone off to do exactly what we've raised her to do. We wouldn't have it any other way. But here in our home, at least for this season, the absence of her laughter is near deafening.
Twenty seven years of kids in the house is a blessedly long run and I am thankful for every minute. Stacking those years alongside the brief three married years Jim and I spent before we were expecting Isaac, it is suddenly obvious that we are sorely out of practice at being alone together. There will be a learning curve for sure; but I am optimistic.
I've said it before and it bears repeating. It really is a good thing we still like each other. So...Though I despise outdoor adventures involving tents, insects, and campfire smell in my hair which doesn't wash out for a week, maybe we'll start brainstorming about buying a camper. We can torment both of our children by driving wherever it is they finally land, parking an over-wide camping monstrosity their driveways, and hooking up to their electric and water for months at a time! Perhaps I will start enjoying the mind-numbing game of football or Jim will unexpectedly realize he's been mistaken all these years and he LOVES watching cheesy chick-flicks and emotional dramas which heretofore have made him want to puke. Maybe in the next decade or two we'll discover we adore playing Scrabble, watching birds, or learning to ballroom dance.
In spite of my pitiful state of nest-grieving, today I am taking time to thank God particularly for two marvelous things. The first is FaceTime, which makes it seem as though my daughter, son, and daughter-in-law are in the very same room speaking with me. BEST FUN EVER. And the second is the guy with whom I still share this roomy nest. That man who thankfully took the time to be a kind, loving, and supportive husband while he was still in the thick of being a wonderful father.
All in all a pretty good start as we begin testing the bold notion that the best is yet to come.
