Empty-Nesting: You Know When It’s Time…
We became empty-nesters this week. Our son has left the building.
I swear he wasn’t pushed. We view our negotiations as closer to a manipulation that made sense — primarily, for him. Not once did we bring up the subject of our sanity in the conversation.
Anyone who has twenty-something-year-old kids still living at home will know that there comes a time. A time when the kids need their space to grow, go wild and make their own mistakes. A time when you need your sleep.
It’s one thing to offer them a roof over their head while they are studying — to improve their career chances — but it’s another to sacrifice your peace when they are in the workforce, with far more disposable income than you’ve had in a long time, and living the rowdy lifestyle that goes with it.
We have tried to make living together work over the past year — honestly! In some ways, our son has tried harder than us, and yet no amount of nagging will make the twenty-one-year-old brain of our son think along the same lines as our fifty-something-year-old brains.
Particularly, an ADHD brain — which I can vouch for because I was that kid that smoked the butts of cigarettes at five in the morning, hitch-hiked across Europe, and strolling into work straight from the nightclub. Needless to say, “the crazy” hasn’t fallen far from the tree in our house.
Fortunately for my father, my period of existentialism happened away from home, with no one to nag me about noise, how often I ate, or the dreaded R-word (responsibility) every five minutes, like a stuck record.
I swear that the word will always be a trigger in our son’s life.
I have no idea how long this amazing strike for independence will last. Forever, I hope — for his sake — even though my heart physically hurts when I think about MY loss. For all his noise, for all those visits to the police station and suspensions from school, I will miss our boy.
Like any child, he has made an indelible mark on my heart. But in his case, because I have shared his struggles so viscerally — struggles that have mirrored mine many times — his departure feels more personal, as though a part of me is leaving with him.
I have to remind myself that this decision is not about me.
When our daughter left, I knew that she was ready. Our son’s departure is different — he needs to go — for him, for us; perhaps most importantly, for the future of our relationship with him.
I would be proud to say that raising my son has made me a better person, and yet I have never pretended to be that “perfect,” selfless stereotype of the mum of the kid with special needs who rose to the challenge. Our journey has been a tough one, and there have been times when I have resented his “different” dynamic in what should have been ordinary lives. ADHD is not an easy condition to live with — for neither the sufferer nor the carer — and it can have a devastating impact on close relationships.
What I will say, though, is that my son’s presence in my life has made me more conscious of “difference,” and the difficulties of those people that have a “different” brain, who struggle in a society not customized to their needs, that continues to deny their disabilities, and allows them to fall by the wayside. Being my son’s mother has made me less discriminatory and an advocate for people like him — work that I am proud of.
Am I more patient? No. But then, this stage of my life is probably not the best time to be judged by my patience levels.
Our boy has only moved up the road, which means that he can pop back, anytime — which he did last night at 1.30am, in search of a clean towel — and we can reach his new unit within five minutes if he needs us. Nevertheless, the three of us know that we need this time — time to heal, time to forget the scarring judgments spoken in anger, time to repair, and time to breathe freely again. We need time apart to remind ourselves of how much we love each other. The old man and I need time to catch up on more than twenty years of sleep.
A year ago, I would never have believed that this day would come. A year ago, it felt like a fantasy to think that one day Kurt might hold down a job. A year ago, we feared for our son’s life, or that he might remain fully dependent upon us for the rest of ours.
In those darkest moments, hope and survival are sometimes the only things to hold onto, and one of life’s greatest gifts is the element of surprise. Always remember the healing and maturing power of time, its ability to scaffold forgiveness, change circumstances, and people. We are so proud of where Kurt is right now.
Friends, whose kids have already left the family home, have assured me that their relationships with their kids improved once they decamped. And while my relationship with Kurt has always been complicated — intense, symbiotic, and unhealthily enabling at times — I know that deep down both of us need this move to work. Little has remained left unsaid in our relationship. We know each other inside out — for better or for worse — so we know what we mean to each other.
Nevertheless, it is time for our chick to fly.
Taken from My Midlife Mayhem