The Empty Bedroom

Pexels via Pixabay

 It’s the empty bedroom that gets me every time.

As parents of a young adult, we're really fortunate that we get to see our daughter often. Though she's not right around the corner, she's close enough to make weekend visits a regular occurrence, whether we go to her or she comes to us. Sometimes, we even get to see her for a week at a time. 

Like last week. The combination of built-in days off and vacation days meant that my husband and I had shared vacation time for two weeks in December, and all three of us were here from just before Christmas until New Year's Day.

When this happens, it begins to feel as though she lives here again. I get used to seeing her and doing things (or doing nothing) with her, and just basically having her around. 

It's nice. Very nice, in fact. I love the young woman she has become and I genuinely enjoy her company.

Eventually, however, she has to go home. And, though we raised her to be independent and to pursue her own goals and dreams, I miss her when she goes. She keeps in touch and we talk a lot and, while  I'm profoundly aware that not all parents are as lucky as we are in these respects, it's not the same. 

Though I no longer tear up the second she pulls away, I do notice that the house is suddenly a tad too quiet (and this is coming from the woman who prizes a quiet house). Or, as my friend Joy would say, the energy in the house is different.

But I adjust. This is what we raised her to do -- grow up and grow into her own person. It just so happens that (like her mother), that grown person took a path that a led her to land a few hours away from her hometown. 

My husband and I settle fairly quickly into the empty nest routine we've grown to actually enjoy, perhaps even relishing one another's company a bit more than usual. 

But, at some point, I have to go upstairs. In our small Cape Cod, upstairs consists of two bedrooms, one across from the other, separated by a tiny half bath. 

And one of those bedrooms is entirely too quiet. Dark. Tidied (except for the unmade bed), with her books on the shelves and childhood possessions in their places. Devoid of the duffel bags and miscellaneous belongings that claimed the space during her stay, it screams out that she has left again, off on the journeys and adventures I want her to have.

Such a mixed bag, this parenting game. Sometimes too full, sometimes too empty, and properly stuffed all too infrequently. 

Luckily, with age comes wisdom -- at least sometimes -- and I've grown smart enough to prize my time with her when she's here, creating a buffer against those times when the house is too quiet and the bed too unslept-in. It sees me through until we gather again.

But it never completely protects me from the echo of the empty bedroom.