Empty Nest Gets Emptier

You'd think, after the oldest child grows up, graduates, and moves out, that you'd be prepared for the second. After all, you know now what it feels like, the absence, the worry, the gradual adjustment, the empty room, the just-getting-used-to-it when suddenly it's Spring Break, and all the noise is back, the visiting friends, the coming and going, the quanities of food being eaten!

But the truth is, you're not. My second hasn't left yet; she heads off to school in the fall, but as much as I try to brace myself mentally and emotionally, I know, when it happens, it's going to hit me hard. It's the price we pay, I guess, for being close, for having good relationships with our kids. I want them to go off and be independent, but plain and simple, I miss them. I'm going to miss them. I don't want them to do what I did -- move to far away cities and start totally separate lives, only seeing each other once a year, if even that. I want them across town, down the street, next door. I want to stay being a part of their lives.

Oldest son coming home this weekend for my birthday. A couple of days with the family together. Going to enjoy every minute.

What am I going to do with two empty rooms?

Recital Notes

Attended a piano recital today. The piano hulked up there on the stage like a heavy, agitated beast. Untamable, it seemed, breathing up there, setting a rhythm of it own. It struck me how physical the relationship is between the player and the piano. It's not just the hands, the fingers, pressing on the keys. There is a much larger interaction. The pianist played an English Suite by Bach. She led us through the melody, declared the rhythm. The piece was like an announcement, a statement. Agitated. The hands running away from each other, each following a different thread. There were points where the pianist fell behind, like two runners, she seemed to be one step behind the piano's rhythm, chasing the keys to get control. The player struggled, she fought through it and forged ahead, pulled up even with the song. I half expected the piano to move, to lunge away across the stage.

For the Geoge Crumb piece, the pianist removed the music rack. She leaned inside the piano and plucked or stummed the strings, sometimes dampening notes, other times creating harmonic tones, a technique I remember learning to do on the banjo, a way of touching the string that produced a beautiful clear note (a perfect 5th?), a pure, satisfying ring.

A Brahams sonata with a clarinetist was played with intensity and precision. The musicians played in a curious sort of unison -- together yet apart. As the piece progressed, something slipped so that when they hit last few measures, something seemed to be wrong. The clarinetist's tone grew wheezy. Was there something wrong with the reed (isn't that what clarinetists use)? The two musicians drifted alightly apart, as if they had left in one boat, but come back in two.

Closed with Chopin, a difficult ballade. Here the pianist shone. She led the piano firmly. We listened with our eyes and ears. We followed her hands. As with the Bach the hands sped off in opposite directions but the tone was complete and restful, not agitated. The essence of romantic music. Lush. Satisfied.

I could listened all night.

Empty Nest Syndrome?

I'm thinking today about the phrase we use -- empty nest -- for when our kids get old enough to move out on their own. This suggests that the home we've raised our kids in is the nest -- small, cozy, painstakingly built, and perched precariously in a high spot. When they leave it will presumably be spacious & quiet, but just an empty a space that's no longer lived in.

But in truth it's so much more complicated. I just typed "empty next syndrome" in to Amazon.com and only two book titles came up! If I type in "raising children" I get 1,368 results. Why aren't we talking about this with each other about what it's really like when our kids move on? Are we just too exhausted from raising kids at this point to bother writing any more books about parenting? Do we think parenting has somehow "ended"? Do we secretly wish that our parenting responsibities have ended?

I have two teenagers, one who moved out last June, ane who will leave for college in one year. I also have a two year old, so I'm experiencing both extremes of parenting simultaeously. In my experiece, the impact of children leaving is more signficant than when they enter our lives. When they come into our lives we have time to prepare, to think about it, time to get to know and love them. But when they leave, no matter how much we've talked about it or planned for it, it's still a drastic change. One day they are there with their long legs, their music, their cars, their friends, their questions, and then one day, they're gone. Hence the bird-leaving-the-nest metaphor. Their exit is swift and specific. But the metaphor is too limiting. It needs something else, something more encompassing and complex. It's not the empty nest syndrome that we are experiencing. It's more like the revolving door syndrome. Because they don't fully leave. They come and go. Their needs change. Their questions change. They show up with dirty laundry. They ask questions about cooking. Their parking tickets come to your home address.

Hmm. Now the two year old is waking from her nap and calling for me. These thoughts will have to end here. The revolving door discussion will have to wait...