When our first child went away to university, just a three-hour flight away, I cringed every time someone asked, “Oh, how is it being an empty nester?” We still had one kid at home, so I’d reply, “It’s not empty.”
Two years later, our second child chose a school in another state, and again we’d hear, “Empty nesters, eh?” I’d say, “I don’t like that phrase. Our nest isn’t empty, it’s just quiet.”
Now, more often than not, while my husband and I still live here in “the nest,” the most accurate word really is empty. But not in the sad way people mean. It’s quieter, lighter, and surprisingly full in new ways.
First-time parents get asked around eight months pregnant, “Are you nesting yet?” That frantic phase of building a crib, buying diapers, figuring out how to open and close the stroller without losing a finger, and washing all the oh-my-god-this-is-so-cute clothes in baby detergent.
It’s overwhelming and grounding all at once. You’re preparing for a tiny human to arrive. Once they do, the nest becomes loud, sticky, messy, warm, and mostly happy. Definitely not empty. As the years pass, the nest fills with memories and stuff.
Fast forward about 18 years and your “baby” takes their first real vacation from the nest. I say vacation because they come back for breaks and celebrations.
The first phase of “empty” is the quiet. It’s eerie. A settling sound in the house would wake me, hoping it was one of them grabbing a late-night bowl of cereal. Eventually, you adjust. Your hearing just gets better at picking up your partner’s chewing, stomping, and groans.
Grocery receipts no longer include kid food. The fridge holds ingredients, not a freezer full of Costco meals. Realizing you can eat some version of salad for dinner every night if you want feels wildly liberating. Your time is yours again.
The family calendar no longer revolves around school plays, sports, and birthday parties. Now it’s marked with university breaks in each child’s color, dinners with friends, and more doctor appointments than you expected.
Not being part of their daily lives is an adjustment. The hardest part is not knowing if they had a good or bad day. Getting only a sliver of their week feels like saving their stories for later.
Our nest is always open. Their rooms aren’t home gyms, but they do have high-quality sheets now. When they come home, it’s different. We’re in bed before they go out. One pot of coffee gets us through the morning, and speaking of morning, ours starts in the morning, not after noon (How can they expect to get anything done starting the day at that hour?!).
Do I spoil them when they’re home? Of course. Nothing quiets my mom-worry like having all four of us under one roof.
I want them to know this is their nest whenever they need it. And when they leave, after hugging their childhood sleep stuffy, I empty the fridge and make a salad.
— Laine Gaither, The Assist Guest Writer