Prelude to an Empty Nest
September 25, 2008, by Prudence Baird
The screen door bangs shut behind me, echoing in a house that only last week was filled with the last frantic scrabblings of summer vacation.
The school backpacks no longer hang on their hooks by the door; they are off for another tour of duty filled with new spiral notebooks, freshly sharpened pencils, pocket-sized tissue packs and re-charged cell phones.
I stand just inside the front door, unable to move. Unwilling to hang up my keys. Incapable of addressing this morning’s breakfast dishes, still in the sink.
I am paralyzed by the sudden realization that all too soon there will be no more first days of school. No more carpools to drive, after-school games to attend or fundraisers to plan. In that not-too-distant future, what will autumn be like without the noise, commotion and companionship children bring to a home, to a life—to my life?
My eardrums ache, searching to pick up even the faintest of noises. In the distance, I hear my neighbor’s chainsaw cutting wood for the winter. Upstairs, a gentle snore tells me the cat is curled up in a warm shaft of morning sun.
As my ears adjust to the heaviness of this newly hatched solitude, I realize that the sounds I’m hearing, and those that are absent, are an auditory foreshadowing of life after and beyond school-aged children.
Ethan, 15, is already preparing us for the inevitable separation by spending most of his days and evenings at school or out with friends. But my youngest, Casey, is still very much at home.
At 13 years, his 85 pounds stretched over a 5’3” frame, Casey is thin and taut like an old-fashioned car antennae. And like that obsolete car part, he picks up signals the rest of us cannot receive. He broadcasts these in an ongoing stream-of-consciousness that morphs into a (mostly) one-way conversation; his volume stuck on “loud” – the only variation being “really loud.”
If Casey is in the house, you feel his presence the way you feel electricity building before a thunderstorm. Intervals of stillness are punctuated by the scritch-scratching of his colored pencils as he draws. Paper rustles; the pencil-sharpener grinds. Soon, his pregnant hush gives birth to another singular portrait and a verbal onslaught of insights and endless inquiry.
“Who is this?” he demands, sticking an 8 ½ x 11-inch piece of paper five inches from my nose.
“Hmmm,” is my customary response as I back away to gain perspective. “Ho Chi Minh?” I venture.
“How did you know?!” Casey cries, delighted.
“It looks like him.”
“How? How does it look like him?”
And thus begins another lesson in the ancient art of physiognomy or “face reading,” something children like my son are supposed to be unable to do. Like a cat that senses he’s not supposed to trespass on certain laps, however, Casey ventures there anyway, attempting to capture with his portraits the very essence that drives unique individuals who push society forward, haul civilization backwards or simply create a wake with their unkempt or munificent lives. Samuel Johnson, Spinoza, Gandhi, James Brown—no one escapes his scrutiny.
He forces my somnambulant brain to awaken, to dust off forgotten lessons in history, geography and cultural trivia. He makes connections, hauls me along untrodden pathways, bumping into long-forgotten factoids or stumbling over new information. The impact of war, greed, poverty and education on a person are examined and parsed; all part of a borderless jigsaw puzzle Casey has constructed, starting point unknown.
“Who was the president of South Viet Nam?” Casey demands.
I’m stumped.
“It’s Ngo Dinh Diem!” he crows.
Eventually, I deduce that Casey’s Vietnam War obsession began with an overheard comment on NPR days ago.
Figuring out Casey’s inspirations is a Sherlock Holmesian exercise; I congratulate myself on solving the mystery. Casey, however, has moved on to another portrait, another obsession. The pencil scratches furiously.
Now, with the boys back in school. I have a whole six hours to myself every day, five days a week—plenty of time to catch up on just about everything I ignored all summer.
But instead of feeling relieved, free of Casey’s strenuous curiosity, I feel adrift in a fitful silence.
Somewhere, I wonder, is he asking someone else, “How? How does it look like him?”
September 25th, 2008 at 8:53 am
First of all, that’s a great photo of Master Casey. Secondly, how prescient of you. Our daughter, an only child, just went away for a 3-day retreat with her 7th grade class. My husband and I are both busy, but the house felt, well, extraordinarily empty. Ten years ago, my neighbor, a good Catholic, who had given birth to four children, just experienced her youngest going off to college this fall. Once, I bemoaned the fact that I was an older mom and that I really wanted four kids. She said: “honey, there’s no escaping the empty nest. I had four to try and avoid it…but it happened anyway…they have to grow up.” Darn. She’s right. But I don’t have to like it.
September 25th, 2008 at 8:55 am
Awesome blog.
September 25th, 2008 at 10:03 am
As an auntie to a kid with PDD/Autism, I know the energy and heart and presence it takes to engage their universe. I also know the amazing gifts these children offer us. As an auntie as well, to a “regular” kid, I also know the energy, heart, presence it takes to raise them, and of the gifts they offer. It’s a fine balancing act you and my sister perform each day. Congratulations, Pru, on a beautifully written blog, and thanks for letting us into your world.
September 25th, 2008 at 10:37 am
I felt fall in the air reading this.
heard echoes and saw the sun slanting a different way.
September 25th, 2008 at 12:06 pm
You are a gorgeous writer. Almost makes me want to have kids, who will grow up and leave a silence that will make me weep.
September 25th, 2008 at 2:42 pm
Thank you, everyone, for your kind words. I am fortunate that I was able to have these two wonderful children who have taken me on many a journey, always in the end to meet myself (again, for the first time!).
September 25th, 2008 at 11:32 pm
We went out on the lake tonight like we do every year on my husbands birthday. The night was still the air calm and the ducks kept us company because the two boys now men who are usually with us have grown and gone. I felt a heart tug and wondered where they were. I looked up at the stars and during the month when the falling stars are not suppossed to happen I saw two shoot across the sky. I knew then my sons were with us and always would be- like the eternal stars that shoot across the sky.
September 26th, 2008 at 12:33 pm
When I get waves of that–”what will it be like without them?”–I feel a kind of panic of impending loss and I just have to put it away for another time. Love hearing about your days and hours with Casey. I can hear him and see him when you write. And I miss him–as I miss you. Good for you for getting your thoughts down on paper–or on screen as it were. It makes for lovely reading, and a little window into your current life…
September 27th, 2008 at 3:41 pm
I am so happy that so many can relate to this piece. Some beautiful thoughts from my friends, known and unknown. Thank you.
September 27th, 2008 at 8:51 pm
Excellent writing! I know what it feels like as my youngest is 21 and my oldest is 29. Sometimes it hurts my heart and other times it is pure joy! I do miss those days but now I have two grandkids that bring back memories I cherish and they are making more memories for me in a different way. I do believe I am liking it.
September 28th, 2008 at 9:21 am
In the silence is your blessing. You have done the first part of your job as a mother beautifully. It is a tenured for life position and more blessings await as your lovely boys become men, move away emotionally and physically but never miss the opportunity to return to their Mum and show her what they have accomplished.
Thank you for a gorgeous evocative piece.
October 1st, 2008 at 11:21 pm
You did it again. You made me cry.
October 2nd, 2008 at 12:43 pm
When my firstborn left, I was bereft, my family torn asunder, our life never to be the same.
With my lastborn leaving six weeks ago, it feels so right, so much a part of the plan, a time for me to rediscover what I want to do without constant interruptions. . .rather, with interruptions only from husband, not compounded with those from children. It has been, like life with them, an evolution. . .an evolution to the Empty Nest. It feel just right.
Thanks, Pru. Thanks.
November 17th, 2008 at 9:31 pm
Great stuff, Pru. Good to see you the other day.
LW
February 24th, 2009 at 9:17 am
Lovely. Just lovely. My youngest is a junior in high school, and I can relate to the scratching of the pencil you describe. Mine draws as well, and although he’s always been a rather quiet person, I, too, feel his absence when he’s away for a day or two.