The Inevitable Emptying of the Nest

“I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them.” -Andy Bernard

From my journal: 08.23.17

     We packed up our second child and took her to college yesterday. By some miracle it happened, though exactly four days ago her bedroom floor was knee-deep in eight months worth of dirty laundry. Somehow the clothes got washed and packed, along with four dozen “quiet films”, a dozen hats (placed carefully in hat boxes), and two dozen or so books selected most heart-wrenchingly.

     We filled the van, and Sabrina drove, so as to overcome her anxiety over the sixty mile commute. We pulled into her housing, unloaded the van, helped her set up her bedroom, met her cute roommate, went to Walmart and spent upwards of a million dollars on grocery items, met her sister for lunch, drove to campus and rented a Marriage & Family textbook for a mere $84.00, took her back to her apartment, met another roommate, did one more Walmart run, choked back tears while hugging Sabrina goodbye, then left. That sixty mile drive through the canyon, just the two of us, with our child’s absence already being acutely felt, is a killer.

     We got home at nearly 7:00. Jonah was downstairs, laying like a slug in front of what I fear may have been his eighth hour of Gravity Falls episodes. Spencer was getting ready for work as the pizza boxes and pool table balls strewn about the floor acted as a dead giveaway that he had perhaps over-enjoyed time with his friends in an unsupervised house.

     It was exactly 12 hours before these two summer sloths, we’ll call my sons, would be starting school. Jonah still needed a belt and a haircut. He has that awkward 24’ waist that, for some reason, both the men’s and boy’s section considers No-Man’s Land. It took two stores, and a full hour of shopping to finally stumble upon that blessed 22’-26’ reversible black/brown belt. Upon returning home, I sent Neil and Jonah to Smith’s to conjure up whatever Jonah might deem as edible lunch items.

     There I sat, alone, in the quiet cluttered darkness that was my house trying to process my feelings. They were the same feelings I experienced after dropping Jessica off in Logan almost exactly 3 years ago. They were…non-feelings really. Moms often describe the two days of sobbing that ensue after their adult kids leave home. It’s different for me. I can only say that I feel empty. It is an empty, helpless feeling as you try to grasp that half of your children no longer reside safely under your roof. It is a mind-numbing mess to try to work through.

     And I still haven’t worked through all of the feelings. It will be a process, just like every part of parenting has been. I spent the first ten years of adulthood preparing and filling my nest. I spent the next ten years nurturing the little chicks within that happy little nest. But nobody prepares you for the inevitable emptying of the nest. No one prepares you for the emptiness. Nobody teaches you how to look into the void and to somehow continue to breathe. Eventually we figure it out, just like we figured out breast-feeding and potty training and back to school shopping and driving lessons. Parenthood is one constant stream of exchanging an old comfortable normal for some new panic-laden territory. Eventually the panic burns off and is replaced with normalcy. But that is not this day. This day, I will deal with the ache every time I pass Sabrina’s empty bedroom. This day, I am practicing breathing through the emptiness.

Back To School Night...Is That Still a Thing?

       This is the exact question I asked myself last Wednesday, as I happened upon the reminder from Jonah’s school. Ugh. How many years of my life have I given to Back to School Night? Seeing as Jonah is my last child, and this is his last year in junior high, and the high school has become observant enough to note that nobody has time for back to school night, thus discontinuing the practice all together, I figured I would end strong and attend. Neil was entertaining management from China, so I was left to attend all by myself. This is no big deal once I get to the school, but it is getting into that school that requires heavy support from my better half.

            My minivan approached the stop sign near our school only to stop behind a good twenty vehicles all headed to the junior high. This stop sign didn’t exist last back to school night! Dang these highly involved yuppie parents and their confounded SUV’s. I carefully considered taking a hard left and spending the next hour and a half at the local Kneaders, but somehow mustered the strength to stay the course. The stop sign experience was simply a foreshadowing of the mess that awaited me at the school. There were vehicles everywhere. Just everywhere. Minivans and SUV’s lined both sides of the road for half a mile. The side neighborhoods were overrun with cars. As I rounded the corner and approached the front of the school, I didn’t even attempt to enter the parking lot. It was obviously full, full of vehicles belonging to moms who thought ahead and left for the school a half hour early, moms whose oldest child is now entering junior high for the first time and who are keen on their child having the optimum middle school experience, moms who find value in listening to the principal’s schpeel and will lend an ear to the pleading PTA president (bless her heart). There was no place for me in that parking lot. My day in the mommy elitist sun ended long ago. I moaned a little and kept driving. And driving. And, heaven help me, driving.

            It is at this point that I remembered why I always bring Neil to BTSN with me. It is his job to pull up to the front of that school, drop me off, then drive miles down the road looking for a parking spot, park in the next city, then book it to the school at record speeds to meet me in Jonah’s first period class, while I kindly ask him why he’s late and why is he out of breath. This night I was on my own, and for the first time I found myself cursing this school and its demographics. Why couldn’t I live in some inner city? Why wasn’t my kid attending a Title 1 school? Then I’d have no problem finding parking. Better yet, why wasn’t it 1985? Back in 1985 even good moms deemed back to school night as optional. I’d still be among the Parental Elite in 1985. But alas, this is not 1985, and this junior high nestled among the craftsmen style homes of modern suburbia is no Title 1 school. In this school, every parent attends BTSN. In fact, both parents attend as well as Grandma and Aunt Mary for good measure, which is why I would have had less of a walk if I had just left my van parked in my garage. This time the urge to just keep driving until I found a quiet café became almost too much to bear. I could read my book while indulging in a delicious pastry. I would go home and tell Jonah that I found all of his teachers delightful although not very helpful as everyone of them told me to refer to their webpage for any information. Jonah might buy it, but Neil would be looking for pastry crumbs and butter stains on my shirt.

            I wanted to walk a mile to this school zero percent, but I did it. Mind you, it was 93 degrees outside. I am beginning to watch my weather app like one would watch the stock market. Come on baby, just let the highs drop below 90 this week. DANG IT! Apparently these last five years of sedentary existence have actually impacted my stamina negatively, because you would have thought I had just finished a Ragnar heat based on the redness of my face and the voracity of my panting as I entered the school. 

            I was already late for first period.  Something terrifying hit me as I meandered down the halls and into class. When did I become that frumpy mother who shows up to BTSN in her microfiber mom capris and barely a stitch of makeup? When did that happen? I sat among women comfortably planted in their early thirties, with their flat-ironed hair and skinny jeans. The variety of flat that my hair was sporting was the result of bed head, not a Chi, and no piece of clothing on my body warranted the prefix “skinny”.  These moms were undoubtedly numbered among those parked in the front parking lot.

            I’m not one to obsess over appearances, but sadly my mental state seemed to match my physical state. As parents eagerly took notes and asked questions, I tiredly cringed, realizing that the $100.00 I dropped at Target for school supplies was once again insufficient. I jotted down expo markers, colored pencils, and graph paper into my phone because I had brought not a single piece of paper or pencil to take notes with. Then I began to search for calculator apps as the thought of buying one more TI84+ made me throw up in my mouth.

            Nothing brought this mama more joy than learning that all of my child’s classes rested at the south end of the school. After running a half marathon to get into the school, I was in no mood to jog from one end of the school to the other for classes. If Jonah had had a class on the north end of the building, that class would have promptly become dead to me. But luckily, even his portable and seminary building were conveniently situated on the south end of campus so I went to all seven periods. I have my awesome moments. I even asked a question in a total of two classes. In Math class I asked this. Exactly how many math homework problems can we expect on any given night?  This was asked with just the right amount of snark to hint that if this woman dared utter that it would be more than 20 problems, so help me, I would egg her house. She said no more than eleven problems. I think she and I are going to get along swimmingly. The other question came in English class. It went something like this. Mr. English Teacher sir, you mentioned that you will be giving weekly vocabulary quizzes. Might I ask how many words you will be assigning and what exactly these quizzes will look like? Multiple choice, fill in the blank, by some miracle an oral exam? The thoughts that were running through my actual mind sounded a little more like. What you don’t understand Mr. English Teacher, is that this blessed child of mine struggles most in life with spelling and memorizing. So what you deem as some simple vocabulary words are essentially a death sentence for my son and all who live in this house with him. I am simply trying to get a grasp on what level of crazy we can expect every Thursday night here at the Watson house. I refrained from speaking my actual thoughts. I’ll save that for parent teacher conference. 

            I ended the night tired but informed and deeply satisfied that I had seen this piece of parenting through to the very end. As I ran my half marathon back to the van in what was now a comfortable 91 degrees, I reflected on this full marathon of back to school night drudgery that I had successfully completed.

            Sixteen years ago, I attended that first kindergarten back to school night. I have gone from that stellar mom parked in the front stall, toddlers in tow, makeup fully applied, signing up for all the class parties and field trips, to that frumpy middle aged mom tiredly petitioning for fewer math problems and begging for a cheaper calculator option. At least I can proudly say that I was always present, red-faced and late, but present.

            Jonah greeted me at the door, anxious to hear my report. Though I had seemed like that snarky half asleep parent in the background, I was actually very engaged and though I took no physical notes, I was making mental notes. We talked all about which teachers I can already tell are going to be awesome, which teachers will be strict, which are chill, and which have quirks that are going to be delightful. Don’t underestimate those capri sporting haggard moms in the back. We may be parked around the block, but we’ve been around the block, and we’ve learned which battles to pick and which to let slide, when to ask the hard questions and when to remain silent, and most importantly, we’ve learned that to be present is always always better than being perfect. Just ask Jonah.