Empty Nest Blues

After alternately sitting and lying around the house continuously since Memorial Day, my 20-year-old son, Matt, loaded up his Pontiac Grand Prix and returned to college Wednesday night, leaving me an empty, chaos-free nest. Well sure, I’m a little sad. What loving, caring, devoted mother wouldn't be? Matter of fact, I'm choking up right now. ... Excuse me. I’ll need a second as my emotions erupt Mount St. Helens-style and spew pieces of my broken heart all over my computer keyboard. ...

OK. Just kidding. Gotcha.

Last year, when Matt left for his first year away from the nest, the experience was very different. I drove him to college, his “new home” 150 miles away from his “real home,” and after a long, painful goodbye (painful to me because of the new chapter starting in my life without my baby; painful to him because I hung around way too long, giving his new dormmates the impression that he might be a mommy’s boy -- which he isn’t, but what’s wrong with that anyway?), I numbly headed home choking back tears.

All the way back, I relived every day of my precious only-child’s life -- from his long-awaited birth forward: The many sleepless nights thanks to his nonstop colic for his first three months, the morning I awoke in panic certain he'd succumbed to crib death after he slept through the night for the first time, his first word (“dada” ... grrrr), his first sentence (“Pug it in” ... don't ask), his first step, first base hit, skinned knees, upset tummies, chicken pox, major surgery, sunburns, preschool, kindergarten, parent-teacher conferences, video games, Pokemon cards, superhero action figures, drivers ed, senior prom, high school graduation ... and finally transporting him to an unfamiliar destination many miles away from home and leaving him there like an unwanted stray cat to fend for himself – a responsibility he was in no way prepared to handle.

Ah, but what a difference a year makes.

I arrived home from work Wednesday evening to discover he’d decided to return to school three days early. His car was packed, and he was itching to hit the road. Fine. But first … I needed reassurance that he had all his clothes, toiletries and school supplies; that his car was operating properly for the long trip south; that he would drive safely, that he had his Triple A card in his wallet and that his cell phone was fully charged. All he needed was reassurance that his bank account would be properly stocked.

All reassurances made, I soon was standing in the middle of the street by myself watching his taillights fade into the darkness. There’d been no maudlin speeches, no long faces, no tears -- just a couple hugs and exchanges of “I love you.”

I danced a little jig and hurried inside the house that would once again be mine. All mine. But immediately, it hit me. The atmosphere was unnaturally quiet. Lifeless. Its energy had gone AWOL. I wandered around and sighed. Certainly, my son had left his mark. Every room was a mess – in the kitchen the sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the stove was spattered with grease, the living room was littered with fast-food wrappers and pop cans, his bedroom strewn with unwanted clothes, and the bathroom… well, never mind the bathroom. My work was cut out for me. Restoring order would take some time. Probably six weeks -- which, according to the college’s academic calendar I’d taped to the fridge, coincided perfectly with his fall break.

And so, my guess is, all the work in store will leave me scarcely enough time to notice the pieces of my broken heart spewing all over the place.