We thought we were entering our Empty Nest stage two years ago, when Son #1 started his final year of college and Son #2 started his first. But both chicks ended up returning to the nest at the end of that year, to regroup and rethink their next steps. They were back—but they weren’t moving backwards. They were young adults now, living more or less on their own, even under our roof—working part-time, cooking their own meals, doing their own things, making their own plans. Finding time to have a meal together or watch a movie was a challenge.
And now they’ve packed up and gone. Again.
For good? Who knows. They’ll always have a bed waiting for them if they need one. In the meantime, though, the house is very quiet again (and yes, okay, a bit cleaner), and it’s going to take some getting used to. Again.
Our sons are 24 and 20. Still young, still starting out, still stretching their wings. But they’re not little kids anymore. They’ve become young adults—excellent and fine young adults—different from each other in some ways and plugged into the same wavelength in other ways—just like you’d hope two brothers would be. They talk to each other more than they talk to us, now, and that’s just as it should be. The quiet is right, even if it’s a little lonely.
Fatherhood was the best thing that ever happened to me, and maybe (I hope) the best thing I’ve ever done. There’s no part of it that I haven’t loved.
I loved the 2AM feeding shifts, being alone with each baby in the deepest part of the night. I loved rocking them to sleep in the little Baby Bjorn. I loved carrying them around, when they were a bit older, in the little backpack I had, marching through parks and playgrounds with them riding behind my head, singing, “Here’s to Cheshire, Here’s to Cheese,” and “I Had an Old Coat.” I loved watching them play with blocks and LEGOs, making creatures with Sculpey or markers or crayons, hiding in forts, telling stories. I loved being there for them when they needed me—to remove a splinter, or to bandage a wound, or to find something that was lost, or just to hold them when they needed to cry.
I loved watching them grow up—questioning, learning, thinking, deciding. I loved cooking for them, driving them around, introducing them to my favorite music and movies—and then learning new movies and music from them. I loved watching each one figure out who they were and what they wanted to do in life.
And now they’re out there, starting to do it.
And so, I think again of the lines from the movie, My Dinner with Andre, that I quoted last week. Because I can’t help myself. And I look at old pictures of those little boys, and I wonder how so much life could have gone by so fast.
People hold on to these images of father, mother, husband, wife...because they seem to provide some firm ground. But there's no wife there. What does that mean? A wife. A husband. A son. A baby holds your hands...and then suddenly there's this huge man lifting you off the ground...and then he's gone. Where's that son?
Beautiful, poignant piece. You are the kind of father I wish my own kids could have. Nurturing, guiding, respectful, and hopeful. Your boys are lucky to have you and each other. I wish them both luck in this new phase of their lives.
Love you
Dad