March 24, 2015

My friend has a newborn baby who sleeps during the day, keeps her up at night with a fondness for 3 a.m. feedings and has developed a nasty case of reflux requiring frequent laundry duty.
She says the highlight of her day is rushing to the grocery store while her mom watches the baby. This new mom crams in housekeeping, bill paying and errands while her baby sleeps. Reconciling her checkbook at 4 a.m. seems like a good idea for my sleep-deprived friend since she’s awake anyway.
Listening to her, I arrived at a personal conclusion: Gosh, I miss those days.
My daughter is graduating from high school in a few months. My son is almost a junior in college. Soon, my husband and I will be empty-nesters and, while we had plenty of advance notice this time would come, I still can’t believe how quickly it arrived. Many mysteries of parenting still exist for me, but this much I know: raising children reminds you of the economy of time.
The other day, my daughter asked me to find a document for her on my computer. While searching, I found a letter I wrote to her on the first day of her high school senior year. Then I found the letter I wrote to my son for the first day of his college sophomore year. That turned into reading other letters I’ve written to my children, which consumed an hour of reminiscing and crying my eyes out.
I wonder what I will do when I run out of official school years? Looking into my future, I can imagine my son’s spouse with raised eyebrows announcing, “Oh look what came in the mail today? Another letter from your mother. She wrote a poem about your job promotion.”
At some point you have to move on.
Like Elsa sang in the movie “Frozen,” I’ve got to “let it go.” Specifically, let my children go and fly on their own and fall and get up and fly again.
I’m trying. Still, parental reflexes kick in even in the deep crevices of my subconscious.
Last week I called my daughter’s high school guidance department. The woman on the phone was friendly enough until she started laughing. I had called the middle school where my children attended five years ago.
I fumbled an apology, embarrassed yet mildly impressed I could still recall an old phone number. The receptionist kindly responded she gets this type of call every once in a while. I wanted to ask her for the names of others who have done this. Maybe we could form a recovering empty-nester group, go out for wine and talk about joining a gym or picking up a new hobby or whatever it is we are supposed to do in this new chapter of our lives.
Truly, we are all recovering in some way. I’d like to believe this kind of recovery is really about discovery — of ourselves and, yes, our children who are learning to fly. If we’re lucky, it’s a time for parents to fly, too. And fall. And tear up at the memory of a 3 a.m. feeding, an elementary school camp day, a middle school dance, a high school graduation.
Then it’s time to take a deep breath and get up again. Maybe I should write a letter to myself.
“Dear Amy,
Hang in there. Spread your wings as your children spread theirs.
You’re going to be all right.
But, stay away from the letters file on the computer for a while, OK?
Love,
Yourself.”