A couple of decades ago, my mother and father were leaving our Atlanta home after dropping off my youngest sister, who had graduated from college and was moving here from Chicago.
As they drove away, their mission completed, my dad, who was a taciturn fellow, muffled some sobs. Not only was the task of moving their youngest to Atlanta finished, but their lifework of raising five kids was largely complete.
For 36 years--from 1958 to 1994--they had at least one kid living at home. That's a timeline of nine presidents, from Dwight D. Eisenhower to Bill Clinton. But now here they were, headed for a residence that would house just them. Maybe Dad feared the quiet. Perhaps he was melancholy about the passage of time. Or maybe it was that they bugged each other and had lost their last buffer.
Now, after almost 28 years, my wife and I are at that point in life, sans the muffled sobs. Somehow, I'm more stoic than my pop.
Recently, our youngest son left for the University of Georgia, trading his basement pad for a dorm. And so my wife and I are left with a quiet house filled with empty bedrooms.
I had looked forward to this day, to no longer having to hurriedly bag four sack lunches before rushing out the door to drive the carpool. I remember agonizing over childcare situations, such as the time we had to fire a beloved nanny for stealing. Or the time one suddenly quit for a better job. Or the heart-pounding speed-limit-bending drives to make the final pickup at day care.
Back around the turn of the century (it is odd to write that), an old doctor who had raised a houseful of kids in the neighborhood stopped and watched as our hellions ran.
"It's like when the neighborhood was young," he said, soaking in the reminiscence.
The empty nest syndrome is well documented with countless articles on the Internet describing the feeling of loss, grief, loneliness, even depression. The Mayo Clinic addresses it, as does Psychology Today.
There are also innumerable stories instructing us what to do with all of our newfound child-free time. One industrious author constructed a list of 30 enriching activities to work on. You can reconnect with the person carrying the laundry basket whom you pass in the hallway. You can redecorate your child-battered dump.
Maybe I'll up my workouts to punching my heavy bag several times a week. I've always said that wrapping up your hands and banging out a few rounds on the bag is cheaper than a therapist.
And it will keep me from having to take up crocheting.
Editorial on 09/01/2018