My wife and I recently became empty nesters after a fairly lengthy, but deeply enjoyable, run. We find ourselves in uncharted waters since most of the time we have been together, we were raising people to become who they were meant to be. Don’t get me wrong, it is the most important work that we will ever undertake, but it has lasted a long time.
When our first son was born, I was completely unprepared to be a father. In my life up to that point, I may have held one baby, never fed one, never changed a diaper, and never even babysat anyone. Knowing who I was as an adolescent, this is probably a very good thing. There were complications with the delivery, and long story short, we left the hospital while our son remained in the ICU for an additional four days. All of the expectations we had built around the ideal birth and snuggling our son in his bassinette were shattered, and going home without him was one of the hardest things we ever did.
Once we got him home, there was a small celebration of sorts. My parents were there, my in-laws, and of course, we were there. I remember distinctly being comforted knowing that there was such experience in the room. But I can also tell you how profound that door shutting was once the last guest finally left. I looked at my wife, I looked at our son, and then back to my wife, wondering what’s next.
I can still see the door and hear the finality of its closing. The sealing against the weather strip, and the absence of experienced parents or trained ICU nurses. I was terrified. I asked my wife what we should do. Do we need to feed him? Change him? What?!
Obviously, she was much more chill than I was. She had experience; she had babysat, held, fed, and cared for babies before. I was the green one. The first thing I learned was how to swaddle. I have to admit that I was exceptionally good at it, only because the nurses were patient in teaching me. That kid was as tight as a burrito once I did my work. But I quickly learned that swaddling was not enough; there was much more to do as a parent.
Over the years, with each successive child that we welcomed into our home, I gained proficiency as a parent, so much so that fifteen years ago, we welcomed into our family a daughter who was not our biological child. Incidentally, when Joan and I talked about the family that we envisioned (while we were dating), I told her I saw us with two kids, and she saw us with SIX! (emphasis is the author’s). With our non-biological daughter, we compromised with five.
As a young man, if you had told me that we would have five kids, I would have told you that there is a greater chance of me living on the moon. But, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I was seeing through narrow, selfish eyes, feeling that the capacity for me to love was limited by what I felt I had in me. What I learned was that my capacity to love grew even larger in ways that I could never have imagined. I was like the Grinch on Christmas morning, when his heart grew three sizes.
33 years and 13 days later, another door closes, and my youngest daughter pulls the door shut behind her for the last time as a resident of our home. This door closing is every bit as profound as that first one. It is somehow louder and more permanent sounding. She is off to start her life and is excited to learn and discover new things; this door closing for her must be liberating and thrilling. But for me, it is a reminder of how quickly time passes.
When you are in the midst of raising people, changing diapers, feeding, doing laundry, picking up stinky socks, and washing dishes, you have no perspective. You are like a soldier in the middle of a battle; there is no horizon, no light at the end of the tunnel. You are not thinking about being at home with family at Thanksgiving. If you spend time not focused on the duties in front of you, you will never make it home. Parenting is similar. There is no horizon, no light at the end of the tunnel. It is a constant effort to help your kids navigate through the world, get an education, attend their performances, practices, and games. Seemingly, it will never end.
Well, it does, and it did.
I need to reorient my thinking and align it in similar ways to the daughter who just left. She is not sitting in her dorm room lamenting the fact that she no longer lives in her home; she is focused on what lies before her. The exciting new opportunities, learning new things, and being quasi-independent in this structured playground they call college. I need to shift my thinking to the exciting new endeavors we will undertake. The guilt-free travel, seeing new places, and exploring others we had only visited. This is a thrilling notion.
Launching people out into the world has its own benefits. I get to observe them becoming who they were meant to be, not my ideal of who I hoped they would be. I have never really projected my vision on what they should do or where they should live. I find it exciting watching from the sidelines (just like their soccer or volleyball games) and seeing how they behave, react, and move within their environment.
Focusing on what is missing is the wrong approach. I am intellectually aware of this. However, don’t mind me if my eyes fill with water when I reminisce on the privilege and joy of hosting these precious people for the period of time that I have been allowed.