Reading · Jane’s Calamity

Back in November, I likened my new, empty-nest phase of life to a lake—a place to stay and explore and enjoy, in contrast to the river I’d been zipping along for the previous decades of my life, always looking forward to the next thing around the bend.

At the time, I was thinking of that metaphorical lake as being something tranquil and beautiful and calm. Not boring, mind you; why, there was talk a of a pontoon party boat! But, you know, steady.

This is not, however, how being on the lake of my life is feeling right now—at least not when it comes to how my kids, both college freshmen, fit into the metaphor.

In fact, it’s more like being on Lake Winnipesaukee the August afternoon years ago when I took my kiddo Elm, who was about six at the time, out in a canoe. Journey back there with me for a moment….

<Wayne’s World style squiggly screen>

The sky was starting to cloud over as we left the island (we were at the YMCA family camp we attend every summer) and I knew that thunderstorms were predicted later in the day. But this was just going to be a quick, 15-20-minute ride from the waterfront to the north dock and back. Easy peasy.

We made it to the north dock, but just after we turned back, the wind picked up abruptly. The lake got choppy, and I suddenly found myself fighting against it with every paddle stroke. We were being pulled farther and farther from the shore by the growing swells, and try as I might, I could not get the damned boat to move in the direction I wanted it to. (To Elm’s credit, they never freaked out. In fact, they were fully bought into my “WOW! WHAT AN ADVENTURE, HUH??!! THIS IS FUN!! WOOHOOO!” shtick.)

It had started raining, and I was just starting to feel quite, well, concerned about this getting-pulled-out-into-the-middle-of-the-ginormous-lake-in-a-storm-predicament when suddenly, miraculously, we started getting pulled in the other direction, back toward the shore. Maybe the wind shifted? Maybe I’d managed to paddle us into a different current? (Do lakes have currents?)

I was delighted by our new circumstances—until it became clear that the lake was now determined to trap our canoe against the rocky shoreline and beat it senseless. So, once again, we were stuck, unable to make any progress in the direction of the waterfront. (I think by this point I was almost laughing at the absurdity of the scenario, because at least now we weren’t at risk of drowning. Also, we saw a pair of flip-flops floating in the water, which Elm thought was HILARIOUS.)

I was about to give up, haul the canoe onto the shore, and walk to the waterfront, dragging the thing behind me, when suddenly something shifted again: Now we were getting pulled back out into the lake, though fortunately not with quite the same force as before. Ultimately, with some concerted paddling, I was able to return us to the waterfront, safe and sound and soaked.

What does this have to do with my life in the here and now?

Well. I have discovered over the past few months that having kids away at college—and, more specifically, having them periodically come home on their breaks—feels rather like being in that canoe. I get pulled back and forth, paddling against the current (I’m going with “yes lakes have currents”), trying to keep a brave face throughout it all, but never quite succeeding.

The kids come home, one or both of them, depending on their schools’ respective schedules, and the house feels full again—especially of shoes and coats—and when I wake up in the morning and go out into the hall and see the closed doors of their rooms, I know they are sleeping behind them, and it feels solid and right.

We fall back into our family banter over dinners and haggle over who gets to use the cars. I watch the special shows I have with each kid: Gilmore Girls with Clio (we are both firmly on Team Jess) and House with Elm. (It’s so bad! I mean, it’s fun to watch, but it’s ridiculous!) I buy the yogurt and the fruit the kids like. I make waffles. Sometimes we do special outings. For example, here’s Clio and me at the Museum of Illusions, where we went last week while she was home on break.

It is all so lovely. And yet I can’t quite fully enjoy it. I’m a little wistful all the while because I’m aware that it’s no longer the norm. It’s a little visit from the ghost of a time that I’m grieving.

Then they go back to school, and I am briefly bereft. It’s funny; I didn’t cry when we first dropped them off at their respective schools back in September. But after I brought Clio back to school after winter break, I sobbed in the car. And when I said goodbye to Elm yesterday as they headed back to school post-spring break, I hugged them so hard I’m surprised their spleen didn’t pop out onto the pavement.

This morning, seeing both of the kids’ rooms empty, doors ajar, felt like a little kick in the shins. But I got my coffee and ate my English muffin with peanut butter and came up to my office and here I am. They’ll be back home in late May, for weeks and weeks. It’s nice to have something to look forward to. And then they’ll leave again.

I hear from friends a few years ahead of me in their empty nest-dom that the back and forth gets easier. It becomes the new normal. You don’t feel like you’re at the mercy of the lake, getting pushed and pulled this way and that. Or maybe you still do, but you don’t mind it as much.

OK, I think this whole lake / canoe metaphor has run its course. In fact, I probably need to lay off the aquatic metaphors in general. So I’ll just close with a boat-free hope that what my older and wiser friends say is true. And, hey, if you’ve been here—or are here currently (ha ha current)—I’d love to hear about it. Feel free to use the metaphor of your choice.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you as always for reading. xoxo

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