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Autumn is said
to be a season of change, and so it is. Leaves switch hue and fall, the sky
thickens and chills, the sun seeks warmer climes. But in human terms it is this
time, May and June, that brings the greatest transformation.
It is certainly
true of my small family. Late spring is almost always as the turning of a page,
the start of a chapter or the end of one. In Mays and Junes past we have
married, finished college, begun careers, changed jobs, and moved to new homes.
Today a daughter finishes middle school while a niece completes high school to
begin life away from her home, though nearer to ours. A son starts a journey
his father does not yet comprehend.
Even us old
marrieds are shifting. As I was beginning this column my better half observed
that Girl-Child had just asked my advice on how to flatten a stubborn hem while
she (my wife) was in the yard wrestling our ancient lawn mower for one more go.
A bit of a role reversal, but it’s no news that I’m handier with an iron and
unenthusiastic about the yard when temperatures nudge 100, nor that she’s too
antsy to wait for saner mowing conditions. What’s new is that we now admit it
freely and act accordingly.
I’m beginning to understand why some older men wear mid-calf black socks with
wingtips and Bermuda shorts. I appreciate how a woman might mature into a cat
lady.
Nearer at hand,
yet harder to see, is the day when it will once again be just my wife and me.
We were married over 11 years before adding kids to the mix; I believe they were
good years though I must strain to remember them. With our children at 13 and
14, though, we starting to get an occasional taste of what it will again be to
be, if not exactly alone, smaller.
On one recent weekend our daughter was in Washington DC with her eighth grade
class, by far the furthest she has been from family. Our son too was away, so
it was just us. Two empty bedrooms and us. Us and pets that were not of our
choosing – pets young enough to serve as reminders of their original owners
years after the nest empties. Us and that odd peace and quiet.
This was not
the first time we’ve been alone this past 14 years. We try to get the sporadic
weekend away and have taken two vacations sans kids, but even those are not
previews of the empty nest.
By definition a vacation is not routine. There is no room service in real life,
at least not at my house. The Cokes have no cherries, there is no maid (though
my wife might take issue with that), and precious little sightseeing. There is,
however, homework to do, piano lessons to attend, hems to fix, and a lawn to
mow, even when it’s hot. And two teenagers to mold and shape, to guide,
comfort, nurture, and sometimes just plain endure.
It all seems
normal now, but what of those 11 fuzzy, distant years before children? Will it
someday be like that again, whatever it was? What will fill the void left by
homework and hamsters?
I guess we
won’t know until the day arrives, but it’s a safe bet it won’t be the surviving
pets or all that peace and quiet. The adjustment will come in phases: First
the period after kids but before retirement, that space between weaning and
Winnebagos, then retirement, when the rest of the routine passes. I like my job
but suspect I’ll miss the kids more. I’ll probably visit them more often, too.
Our weekend
alone was pleasant, certainly quieter and more productive than most. Not a bad
way to live if this is how it will be, but in the end I suspect the future will
find a way of writing itself.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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