Knock Knock. Who’s There?
Or should I say, who isn’t?
Every time my oldest son heads back to school in DC, I find myself standing in the middle of the living room, more like a fixture than a mother; a permanent artifact to the way it used to be when my kids were little and still lived at home and would swirl around me emotionally, if not physically.
So cliche, but the time with our children goes by so fast. How can it be that the first child I carried, that I nursed, that I bathed, that I raised from infancy is going to graduate from college this May? And if he gets this job he’s interviewed for, he might never live at home again? That his trips to Connecticut from college are soon to end and come June, when he comes here, instead of coming home, he’ll be visiting from his own home?
It’s surreal. And I can hear the collective, “I told you so,” from dozens of parents older than I am, with children older than mine. Do you hear that? I hear you. And though I believed you, there was something you neglected to mention to me that is more important than the bittersweet passing of time spent raising a child.
It’s the inescapable passing of time shifted away from our spouses.
My mother said to me and my sisters, on more than one occasion, “love your husbands most because one day they’ll be all you have left.”
That statement made no sense at the time she first told us that. At least not to me. My husband was an independent human being after all and could fend for himself. He didn’t need me to feed him (though, okay, he does like it when I decide to cook instead of relying on him to do it). He didn’t need me to bathe him (though the offer almost always stands in our house, if I want to, I can). He didn’t need me to teach him things or stimulate his thinking or tell him to modify his behavior or suggest to him how to feel after a particular life event — try as I might to do those things, actually, he’ll always remind me, I don’t need your help with that. And he doesn’t; he doesn’t need that help from me.
But my children did. My children still do.
Then, as they got older, I found myself enjoying their adult, or nearly adult, company … sometimes more than I enjoy my husband’s. And, well …
My mother was right, wasn’t she. (Please don’t tell her. Let’s keep that between us for now.)
Of course, this is the same woman who told me and my sisters, one time when we were sitting around the table commiserating about how annoying our young husbands were at that particular time in our lives, that we could consider them glorified sperm donors. Very valuable ones, of course, but sperm donors just the same who allowed us to have the magnificent children that we have.
Well, sperm donors or not, it’s our husbands who are there when our kids grow up and go out and ultimately move out and move on.
Oh sure, some of you might say, “consider it a blessing” or “it’s what you want” or “they’ll come back” and to all those retorts I’ll say, “of course.”
I’m fully aware that having children has been our greatest gift. I’m also fully aware that their journey to adulthood and independence is the natural order of things.
I also know, on a logical level, what my husband and I set out for ourselves when we launched our kids into the world. It’s the successful achievement of the goal. But that goal was unvoiced when my husband and I first set out towards it together. As soon as that pregnancy test told us we had conceived a child together.
Those tests should come with a disclaimer: listen to your mother while you’re on this journey. She knows what she’s talking about. She’s been there.
Today I’ll figure out a way to love my husband most. What will you do to prepare for that too soon to be empty nest?
