Beware the Empty Nest

We're not that great at selfies, but we are great at adventuring!

Empty nest: a reality I have dreaded the last few years, knowing full well it was approaching more quickly than I could admit or wrap my mind around. People warned me about it, made jokes about it and its impending doom, and truly made me worry.

For the last 22 years, my life has revolved around the two children that we brought into the world. We hadn't had Meg for more than just a few weeks when my husband, Mitch, came home from work and began what had become our primary conversation once she entered our lives: how is she, how well did she eat, how many diapers had I changed, how much did she sleep? For some reason, it struck both of us that particular day just how much our relationship, particularly our communication patterns, had changed.  We had been together for seven years and had forged a relationship centered on shared interests, intellectual stimulation, and adventure. In a matter of days, though, all of that had been replaced by her. And when we added Seth to the picture, we had twice as much to discuss, to worry about, to focus on.

As the kids developed interests, so did we. As the kids studied for school, so did we. As the kids struggled, celebrated, and grew, so did we. Truly, our relationship centered on our common goal of investing every ounce of energy we had into raising happy, confident, competent children. And, as a result, our conversations centered almost exclusively on them and their lives (although as they aged we talked less and less about their bowel movements). In the process, we seemed to lose the first seven years of our lives together, those interests and conversations and that relationship that had been the beginning of our journey. Perhaps we could be criticized for investing ourselves so fully into parenting that we neglected our marriage. But it was a decision mutually agreed upon and consciously made. It was a decision we had never regretted.

About a year ago, knowing this day was on the horizon, we began talking about how we would fill the holes and gaps. We talked about developing new interests, taking up new hobbies, and both of us worried, I think, about living alone in the house together. We worried about what we do without the kids, without our center.

That day is here and many people regularly ask me if I am ok—with genuine concern in their voices. I feel a bit guilty that I have nothing but happiness to report. I am sad that my children are grown and that phase of our lives is over, but unexpectedly, an empty nest has proven less difficult than I had anticipated. In fact, it has proven to be fun. We have essentially picked up where we left off and our relationship is once again our focus, except now we have adult children, our beautiful best friends, to share it with.

I now believe that empty nest is the wrong metaphor and our fears were without merit. Our lives are not empty. Our home is not empty. Our relationship is not empty. In fact, the opposite is true. Our lives are more full as our children fill their nests and share them with us. I am now thinking I should warn others that an empty nest may, in fact, be something to look forward to, that an empty nest is a just reward for those wonderfully crazy parenting years. 

Oh, and as an added bonus, we can streak from the bathroom to the bedroom worry free (you know, if we forget to take a clothing item to the shower of if we change our minds about what we want to wear)!

Written January 18, 2015

Yep, I Have Been Visited (at least Verbally) by an Angel

Soon after our arrival in Manti, we purchased an older home which, as you would expect, required a ton of work to get it into a desireable condition. We actually spent the better part of an entire year simply demolishing--Mitch would say that is a strong word, but my sense was that it was live-able when we bought it and a year later it was no longer inhabitable. Initially, I didn't have his vision. 

Soon, though, I could see it. In the dining and living rooms, my husband had torn out the false ceiling--which was covered by those school-ceiling sponge-like tiles of the 1950s--to reveal beautiful 10 foot ceilings and missing molding. He was working on replacing the molding and I was working to remove nine layers of wallpaper, a veritable history of decorator trends. I was soaking the paper with water and then scraping the walls over and over and over with a 3-inch razor-type tool. Piles of gold, baby blue, green, and rose colored torn scraps of paper fell in mounds around the walls of the room. It took weeks to remove the paper with me working hours and hours at a time.

One hot summer day, I loaded 3-year old Seth up and we went over to the house to work.  I turned on some music, picked up my tools, and quickly immersed myself in the layers of tightly glued paper; Seth got busy exploring both inside and out, which was our typical routine. We had replicated this exact process dozens of times.

I honestly do not know how much time had passed (you are welcome to launch parenting attacks at this moment), but I know I had made what I felt was good progress when suddenly I heard an audible and urgent voice order me to "find Seth"!  I stopped abruptly and began to look around. He wasn't in any of his usual hangouts, and as I searched I felt a heart-gripping sense of urgency. I went outside and ran around the house yelling his name. He was nowhere, I was panicked, and I was at a loss as to where to look. I stopped, calmed myself, and asked for guidance.

Immediately, my attention was drawn to the car. I walked toward it, not seeing my baby but feeling compelled to move in that direction; as I neared, I heard a tiny little muffled voice screaming for help. I bolted to the car and opened the door, expecting to find him. I didn't, but the voice grew louder so I flipped the trunk latch where I found a crying, sweaty, limp little boy who was heat exhausted, dehydrated, and terrified.  Had he fallen asleep or passed out, I'm not sure I would have found him in time. More importantly, had I not heard a voice, I may not have gone looking...at least not at that moment. 

That hot summer afternoon is not the only time that I have felt guided, that I have felt someone I could not see was watching, caring, and protecting. In fact, it has happened enough times that I don't question. If I'm driving down the street and feel prompted to change my intended path, I do so without question.  

Generally, I have no idea if tragedy was averted. Generally, I don't know if I was in fact inspired or just reacting to random thoughts. On that day, though, I knew--and I still believe--that someone not of this world intervened to save the life of a curious little boy who somehow found his way into the trunk, shut it, and was then helpless to save himself. I also believe that because of that voice, I was spared a lifetime of sorrow and regret and was granted a couple of decades (and counting) of happiness in my pioneer home.

Written 17 May 2015 

Tolerance: Not My Favorite Virtue

I was involved in a conversation recently about the word "tolerance."  My friend was explaining that, for her, tolerance is an essential element of being a good person, a trait which she was working on developing and improving. I must have paused, or pulled a face, or even gasped because she stopped and asked what I thought.

I told her that I struggle with the idea of tolerance, that inherent in its definition is the concept of superiority. If you tolerate someone or something, you merely put up with them or it. I tolerate freezing temperatures. I tolerate flies (okay, maybe not, since during fly season I have a fly-swatter almost permanently attached to my hand). I tolerate (at least for a short time) messes in my home that are made by other people. I tolerate loud chewing (this, admittedly, is more difficult for me and sometimes I tolerate loud chewing by leaving the room which might not actually qualify as tolerance). I don't, though, claim to tolerate people--unless, of course, something about them bothers me and I am merely putting up with their presence--but that notion doesn't seem to be a trait for which to aspire. I often feel guilt when I feel like I'm tolerating someone, and then I overcompensate with kindness. Tolerance, to me, is not a characteristic of a good person. It is rather a natural part of the human condition and in some ways requisite to survival--at least sane survival. How else would I survive freezing winters, fly-filled summers, messy rooms, and noisy eaters?

Nevertheless, people use the term regularly and generally as a positive, aspirational attribute. They tolerate others--those who believe differently, those who make choices they themselves wouldn't make, those who don't conform or live up to certain beliefs of expectations. In essence, they put up with them. Most assuredly, they judge them. Tolerance, used this way, separates people into dichotomous groups: us/them, good/bad, acceptable/unacceptable. What (and where) is the good in that?

I told my friend that I believe we misuse the term. What we usually mean when we speak of tolerance is love. Truly good people love others. They love others despite their differences. There is no us and them, only us. No judgement. No tolerance. Just love. Surely love is an essential, perhaps paramount, attribute of good people and something to which I aspire. She agreed--or at least tolerated my rant.