Parenting
Not long ago, a glimmer of hope illuminated my world. The thought of an almost empty nest danced through my mind, and I could feel freedom nipping at my heels as my last child prepared to spread their wings into adulthood. The hourglass felt reversed, with more grains of sand settled at the bottom than at the top. The taste of liberation was tantalizing and exhilarating.
Then, without warning, the seemingly vacant space filled with the joyful chaos of a younger partner and two unexpected little ones. Just like that, the light faded, and the weight of reality settled in.
“I’ll never have an empty nest.”
At forty, I find myself surrounded by babies—precious little ones who won’t reach maturity until I’m a wrinkled sixty. By then, I’ll likely have grandchildren and possibly even great-grandchildren. Instead of enjoying an empty nest, I’m destined for a bustling household in my later years. While my peers indulge in bingo on cruise ships or revel in newfound adventures, I’ll be nurturing young adults amid a sea of baby bags, toys, and assorted kid clutter.
“I’ll never have an empty nest.”
When I utter these words, tears often prick my eyes. Are they tears of joy or sorrow? It’s clear that these droplets carry a mix of both happiness and regret. Children are a true blessing, and I cherish mine deeply, yet the idea of imminent freedom had been intoxicating. I don’t regret starting anew or relinquishing my dreams of liberty for Romper Room 2.0. I just longed for a brief moment to breathe, to see life beyond this whirlwind of parenting.
“I’ll never have an empty nest.”
Tiny hands consume the hours, stealing my thoughts as I struggle to reclaim “me” time amidst the “we” and “they” moments. It’s been days since I’ve washed my hair, the strands that once flowed freely now lifeless and grey. Each brush stroke reveals the toll of motherhood, with strands falling to the sink and floor. A haunting melody of postpartum echoes in my mind, as my body bears the marks of childbearing. A small hand reaches out, tracing the scars.
“I’ll never have an empty nest.”
Laughter fills the air as a child perches on each knee, calling out, “Mama!” just to savor the sound. In those moments, I recognize what I would miss if my nest were to empty. It would feel foreign and empty. I’d be adrift without the daily rituals of wiping tears, bandaging scraped knees, or mending broken hearts. I am a nurturer, the guardian of a very full nest.
In my quest for freedom, I overlooked another kind of light that had been flickering all along—a comforting glow of motherhood, a light that never dims.
“I’ll never have an empty nest.”
And you know what? That’s perfectly okay.