File #985: "Mosaic_Spring2008_5.jpg"
Description
Empty Nest
Gwin Sisk
The fact is this, The popular term "empty-nester” is a charming way to describe a painful adjustment that, as a parent, I was not quite prepared for. Obviously I realized my only son would grow up and leave home; I just did not realize how drastically it would affect my life.
This time last year I would have been watching the clock, calculating how much time I needed to get home and have dinner prepared. I'd leave work in a hurry, breaking the speed limit, and rush to the grocery store. Groceries unloaded, I'd call down the stairwell anticipating my son's reply. These days I rarely leave work before closing time. Concerns of dinner are usually my last, and my car goes much farther on a tank of gas since I'm driving with a lighter foot.
Those unnerving days of very late nights, complete with worry and lost sleep, have been replaced by the quiet stillness as a Christmas tree on December 26. The weekends back then were refreshing, to say it nicely, with our basement game room full of attention-grabbing teenagers. I remember lying in bed with my cellular phone ready, promising that the next door slam would result in a call to the "basement dwellers" as we called them. Some nights, after the girls left, the boys would have X box mara- thons and stay up until dawn. Curiously, I would tip toe down- stairs the next morning to take inventory. There was always an interesting arrangement of sleepers: some on the couches, some on the floor, some in beds, and one contortionist that could roll into a ball and sleep on the bean bag chair.
Weekends now days are very different. The basement is bland, lacking those unique teens with their sparkling eyes of mischief. And noises? Well, the game room is calm and quiet, and the back door never slams. The pool table stands there like a statue with pockets full of numbered balls and one straggling piece of chalk on the rail. The foosball teams wait in different vertical and horizontal positions, while the Xbox and games collect dust. In the kitchen things have really changed as well. We used to go through five or more gallons of milk per week. We bought family sized bags of tortilla chips and kept at least three jars of salsa on hand at all times. Fruit Loops, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and other sugary cereals adorned our pantry. Stacks of soft drinks were consumed, and our can recycling bin stayed full most of the time. Strangely, a six-pack of Budweiser never made it through Friday night; at least we did find cash where the beer had been.
These days we hardly use a half-gallon of milk before the expiration date. A regular sized bag of chips lasts for days, and Cheerios have replaced those other colorful cereal choices. The Sundrop and Pepsi supply lingers around for weeks, and we never find money in the beer drawer of the fridge.
Of all the changes and modifications that have come into play for my new adjusted life, the one that makes me smile the most is the change from our old morning ritual. My son's senior year marked the end of an era, and he was determined to go out with a bang. He inherited from me the hatred of mornings and was a literal bear to get out of bed. Each morning before school, Steve, my husband, would gently wake the soundly sleeping senior on his way to work. Since I left the house last, it was my chore to make sure that he got up and departed for school. Some mornings it would take more than three attempts to get him moving. Bu the time he was getting into his car to leave, we were both angry and stomping.
About-face! No pun intended. Now my mornings are somewhat the reverse. Around 6:00 a.m. I receive a call from my son. He's now an Airman in the United State Air Force (hence the reason for the pun comment). When he calls me, he has already been up for well over an hour and is chipper as a mock- ingbird on a warm April morning. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he is happy and smiling, ready to face the day. I, too, am happy and comfortably content as a veteran empty-nester.
Gwin Sisk
The fact is this, The popular term "empty-nester” is a charming way to describe a painful adjustment that, as a parent, I was not quite prepared for. Obviously I realized my only son would grow up and leave home; I just did not realize how drastically it would affect my life.
This time last year I would have been watching the clock, calculating how much time I needed to get home and have dinner prepared. I'd leave work in a hurry, breaking the speed limit, and rush to the grocery store. Groceries unloaded, I'd call down the stairwell anticipating my son's reply. These days I rarely leave work before closing time. Concerns of dinner are usually my last, and my car goes much farther on a tank of gas since I'm driving with a lighter foot.
Those unnerving days of very late nights, complete with worry and lost sleep, have been replaced by the quiet stillness as a Christmas tree on December 26. The weekends back then were refreshing, to say it nicely, with our basement game room full of attention-grabbing teenagers. I remember lying in bed with my cellular phone ready, promising that the next door slam would result in a call to the "basement dwellers" as we called them. Some nights, after the girls left, the boys would have X box mara- thons and stay up until dawn. Curiously, I would tip toe down- stairs the next morning to take inventory. There was always an interesting arrangement of sleepers: some on the couches, some on the floor, some in beds, and one contortionist that could roll into a ball and sleep on the bean bag chair.
Weekends now days are very different. The basement is bland, lacking those unique teens with their sparkling eyes of mischief. And noises? Well, the game room is calm and quiet, and the back door never slams. The pool table stands there like a statue with pockets full of numbered balls and one straggling piece of chalk on the rail. The foosball teams wait in different vertical and horizontal positions, while the Xbox and games collect dust. In the kitchen things have really changed as well. We used to go through five or more gallons of milk per week. We bought family sized bags of tortilla chips and kept at least three jars of salsa on hand at all times. Fruit Loops, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and other sugary cereals adorned our pantry. Stacks of soft drinks were consumed, and our can recycling bin stayed full most of the time. Strangely, a six-pack of Budweiser never made it through Friday night; at least we did find cash where the beer had been.
These days we hardly use a half-gallon of milk before the expiration date. A regular sized bag of chips lasts for days, and Cheerios have replaced those other colorful cereal choices. The Sundrop and Pepsi supply lingers around for weeks, and we never find money in the beer drawer of the fridge.
Of all the changes and modifications that have come into play for my new adjusted life, the one that makes me smile the most is the change from our old morning ritual. My son's senior year marked the end of an era, and he was determined to go out with a bang. He inherited from me the hatred of mornings and was a literal bear to get out of bed. Each morning before school, Steve, my husband, would gently wake the soundly sleeping senior on his way to work. Since I left the house last, it was my chore to make sure that he got up and departed for school. Some mornings it would take more than three attempts to get him moving. Bu the time he was getting into his car to leave, we were both angry and stomping.
About-face! No pun intended. Now my mornings are somewhat the reverse. Around 6:00 a.m. I receive a call from my son. He's now an Airman in the United State Air Force (hence the reason for the pun comment). When he calls me, he has already been up for well over an hour and is chipper as a mock- ingbird on a warm April morning. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he is happy and smiling, ready to face the day. I, too, am happy and comfortably content as a veteran empty-nester.