The Empty Nest is Just Another Begining

by Amy Ruhlin

I ride shotgun as my husband drives south on a Georgia highway towards Atlanta. Day has turned to night, and I stare out the windshield at the steady glow of a star. Stability in the sky.

We’ve spent the day looking at houses, north of the city, towards trees and mountains and lakes. Towards possible homes for our newly emptied nest. Towards possible places to begin a third act.

It took me a long time to get here. To this beginning. To even wanting a beginning. I reveled in the glorious middle of my story for so many years, and I didn’t like it when I reached the end. I wanted it to continue.

We come closer to our suburb and the star disappears. I see the lights of Target, where we’ve shopped for the past 18 years. I see the red, neon open sign in the window of Kroger, where we pushed our babies in grocery carts, and bought them candy in the checkout lines. I see the lights of the dry cleaners where we’ve dropped off countless bundles of our clothes. I see artificial lights, but remember real love.

I thought our life here would last forever. I loved it all: swing sets in the backyard, bikes in the garage, crayons throughout the house. The sound of my children's voices. Everyday. My son was only one, and my daughter was 4, when we moved into our current home. I never thought I could leave it. I was too attached.

But those years didn’t last forever. Our kids grew up. They opened my heart and blew my mind and then they left. And though I am grateful and happy and free at last, I, like most parents, have struggled with the loss and grief of letting go. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve had to make a concentrated effort to move on. But somehow, despite all of the conflicting emotions, or more likely, because of them, the ending is turning into a beginning.

Today  I wasn't looking for backyards suitable for swing sets. I wasn't looking for neighborhoods full of children. And at times, what I wasn’t looking for scared me, and made me sad.

But then I saw porch swings. And backyard hot tubs. And gentle walking paths down to the water’s edge. I saw possibilities that we never could have considered when our kids were young. And I remembered the many things that we loved before we were parents.

Ageing brings the realization that there is always a beginning, a middle and an end. And that the only real stability is in the heart, down deep, where we store all the things we love.

I can’t wait to find our empty nest house. If you drive by, we’ll be the slightly graying couple on the porch swing, rocking it to and fro, reveling in our beginning.

What I Learned On A Weekend Getaway

by Amy Ruhlin                

Sea Oats

My husband and I are crossing a bridge to a resort island for a fall weekend getaway.  It’s just the two of us in the car and we take in the sight of salt marshes stretched out beneath us and sailboats on the horizon.  It is a familiar beauty, this road to the beach; we have taken it before. There were summer family vacations here. There were getaways like this one; weekends without the kids. But this is the first time that we cross this bridge in our fifth decade. It is the first time that we cross it as parents of children who are grown and are no longer at home awaiting our return.  It is an unfamiliar road.

As the bridge ends and connects to the main road that runs through the center of the island, I wonder how the weekend will go. I am surprised at the lump in my throat as we pass the mini golf course  where we spent evenings as a family happily whacking a small ball through plastic windmills and artificial waterfalls. It was only a game, but small pleasures loomed large then; our children made it easy to stay in the moment where the real treasures lie.  The reality that those days are gone hits me hard here in the car on our way to the hotel.

We check in at the front desk and take our luggage to the room.  We buy a newspaper and two coffees and head out to the pool. There are mostly adults here, absorbed in books and distracted by cell phones.  To the left of the pool I see a small grassy area with striped hammocks surrounded by sea oats.

 I sit in a lounge chair and beside me, my husband sits in one too.   We read the newspaper and sip our java.   And then, off in the distance, I see a small boy. He is on the beach with most of his body immersed in sand and he is giggling with delight.

“Let’s go sit in a hammock,” I say to my husband.

“Together?” he asks.

“Well, yeah,” I answer. “We can both fit.  Come on.”

We leave the newspaper on our chairs and walk through the grass.  I am careful to sit  on the hammock first and then my husband joins me; we are afraid it might tip over.  We stretch out on our backs and stare up at the autumn sky.

“Look!” my husband says. “That cloud is a face.”  I can see a silhouette:  crooked nose; sharp chin; white, wispy hair. 

 My husband puts his foot on the ground and gives us a push. The hammock tilts steep to the left and then with a swoosh we bank hard to the right. We are swinging; back and forth we go between the sea oats.  We look for more drawings in the sky. 

The afternoon is hot. I step  out of the hammock and  slip  into the deep end of the pool. Soon, my husband jumps in too. “Race you to the bottom,” he says.

Sunday comes and we are back on the main road heading towards the bridge.  We are driving back to our house where we raised our family; back to a familiar beauty.  And though our children will not be there, we will. And we are able still, my husband and I, to experience real treasures in the moment and  small pleasures that loom large. The reality that those days are not gone gives me comfort  here in the car on our way home. And this road is not so unfamiliar after all.

Did You Get A Text Today?

by Amy Ruhlin                                 

Today I decided to watch college football with my husband. I actually don’t much like football. I don’t even fully understand football. But my daughter is in college and my son soon will be too so watching it seems like the appropriate thing to do. My husband has a competitive spirit but I don’t. While he screams things like, “You idiot, you missed the pass!,” I select my favorite team based on who has the best color uniforms. 


We sit on the sofa in front of our flat screen TV with our cell phones and laptops nearby. I tell my husband that I have selected the team that I want to win and he tells me that he is pulling for the other team. This will at least make it interesting.

I find the game entertaining for about ten minutes so I decide to ask my husband a question that I have been asking him daily for the last two years since our daughter went away to college. It is a question that I never imagined I would be asking so frequently. In fact, when my daughter was in high school, she told me about a college friend who always made sure that if she texted one parent she would also text the other because if she did not, one parent would feel left out. I remember telling my daughter that I thought this was ridiculous. I would never indulge in such silly behavior.

“Did you get a text today?” I ask my husband.

He smiles and says, “I got two.”

“Two?" I haven’t gotten any in days!,” I tell him. I pick up my phone and check my messages just to make sure.

“And I’m Skyping at 4pm,” he says with a grin.
 

I look at the TV and I see that his team just scored a touchdown.

“Skyping ?”   “Who set that up?,” I ask.

“I did,” he says.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask.

“Well, it’s been a while since we’ve seen her,” he says.

“Hmpf”, I think. He could have consulted me first. Am I not included in their little Skype party? I am feeling left out.

“Well, I got a facebook message from her yesterday. And she sent me the opening paragraph of that big paper that she’s been working on,” I tell him.

“She did? I’ve been wanting to read that paper!” he says.
 

I glance at the football game and notice that my team just intercepted the ball.

"Well, I think she sends me the things that , you know, are  important to her personally, and she contacts you for the financial and technical stuff," I say.

I see that a football player is limping off the field with a hurt foot.

My husband says, “Nah, she texts me personal stuff too.”

“Well," I tell him, "I’m going to Skype with you.” I actually don’t like to Skype. I hate seeing myself on screen.
 

“That’d be great,” my husband says.

The games end at 4pm. I look at the TV and I see all of the players running onto the field, both teams, together. I look at my husband’s laptop and I see our daughter’s beautiful face filling the screen. And in the bottom corner of the screen I see myself, nestled into the crook of my husband’s arm, a middle aged mom and a middle aged dad , happily talking to their 20 year old daughter, together.

I Am Learning To Be A Parent Of Grown Children

by Amy Ruhlin                           

 

Today my 17-year-old son offered to drive my husband and me to visit our daughter at college. It's only a 90 minute drive from our home. I suggested the trip this morning over breakfast, and our son told us that yes, he would like to go, and that we can take his car.

"It will be fun," he says. "We can listen to my music on the way!"

We are delighted by his enthusiasm and thankful that he still wants to spend a weekend afternoon with his parents.

Before we leave, I make some coffee for the drive.

"You're bringing that in a travel mug with a lid, right mom?," my son says. "Remember, I have cloth seats."

I can suddenly see our old minivan that I drove when our kids were young. I see myself in the driver's seat calling all the shots. I see my children in the backseat, safely strapped in and enjoying the ride. I see their crayons and coloring books spread out on the seat. I see their juice boxes in the sticky cup holders, their gummy bears on the floor and their goldfish-shaped crackers stuffed between the cushions. I want to remind my son of this, but I don't.

"Of course I'll use a travel mug," I say. "Don't worry. I promise I won't spill coffee in your car."

My son makes sure that the lid is secure on my mug, and then we all head out the door, and down the driveway to his car. My husband calls shotgun and I say fine, I'll sit in the back. I want to be a good passenger.

I am slowly learning that the skills required for being a parent of grown children are quite different from those required to parent younger children. The early days seem easy now: change a diaper, adjust a car seat, hang out at the playground. These days require more: listen closely, instruct less, let go, practice restraint... not my strong suits.

We're on the freeway. My son turns on his stereo and slides in one of his CDs. It's rap or hip-hop; I still can't tell the difference, even though he has explained it to me many times. Either way, I don't like it.

"Will you turn that down?" I ask him. He turns the music off.

"It's okay mom. We don't have to listen to music," he says.

We travel along in silence for a while, and from the backseat I can hear my husband giving well-intended, but unsolicited driving advice. I can see that our son has become a good driver: he is cautious and attentive to the rules of the road. I can see the tension in his shoulders, and that he is trying to appease his parents.

I see that he has come on this road trip with us in good faith, hoping that we will recognize that he is fully capable of driving the distance, and that we will, all of us together, enjoy his music, the ride, the day. I see that my husband and I are blowing it.

"Let's listen to the radio," I say.

"You'd like the radio on?," my son asks.

"Sure I would," I say. "Or we can listen to one of your CDs," I add.

He puts in a CD. Thankfully, it's different from the one that he first played. Actually, this CD sounds beautiful.

I think about all of the CDs we listened to over the years in the minivan: narrated children's storybooks, favorite songs from favorite movies, my old rock- n- roll tunes. Sometimes when I played the music too loud the kids would scream, "Mommy turn it down!" I want to remind my son of this, but I don't.

"This CD is great." I say. "Who is it?"

My son proudly tells me the name of the band, and then he and his dad begin a lively conversation about music. I see his shoulders relax, and I notice that my husband stops giving driving tips.

I lay my head against the backseat, and I look out the window. I see round bales of hay on rolling hills. I see a big half-moon in the late afternoon sky. I have my warm coffee in a clean cup holder, and my papers and pens are spread out on the seat. I like it back here.

My son glances over his shoulder at me, and with warmth and affection he asks,

"You doing okay back there mom?"

I can see him as a toddler in his car seat. I look in the rear-view mirror of our minivan and I ask,

"You okay back there buddy?"

"Yeah mommy," he says, "I'm good."

I answer my son: "Yeah, I'm great."

Later that evening, we arrive back home and my son pulls his car to a stop in the driveway.

"Hey mom, don't forget to get your coffee cup and all of your papers out of the car," he tells me.

I can see our old minivan again, with the gummy bears and goldfish crakcers stuck to the seats. I want to remind him, but instead, I say,

"I've got everything," and I climb out of the backseat.

"Fun day," he tells me.

"It sure was," I say. "And thanks for driving. I enjoyed the ride."