If My Nest is Empty, Why is My Basement Still Full?

With both our kids married and living in their own homes, my husband and I have officially joined the ranks of “empty nesters.”

Can I just say I’m not sold on this label? 

I understand the reference; fledglings venturing out in independence, leaving Mom and Dad Bird with no one in the nest to nurture. 

But the metaphor gives no emotional guidance. I am not settled in my own feelings about this new parenting phase, so I don’t know how to respond when others bring it up.

And perversely, I want to be contrary.

Should I be sad?

Some people treat me with sympathy, likening my empty-nest status to a state of mourning. Respectful and consoling, they assume I am bereft at the lack of extra people in my living space. 

I am not.

In fact, I am downright giddy to use my own car at my own convenience. To call dibs on the leftovers and actually find them in the refrigerator when it’s time for lunch. And to open the dryer and find it empty, not stuffed with someone else’s laundry awaiting a visit from the Magical Folding Fairy.

But I can’t say that.

Because these dear souls who worry about my emotional well-being are inevitably newly-minted parents. With their infants swaddled on their chests, a toddler balanced on one hip and a preschooler hiding behind their legs, each of their days is a delightful adventure of parenthood. 

THEY would be bereft if someone wasn’t touching them all the time.

I remember that phase of full-contact parenting. Our “date nights” only lasted an hour and a half because separation anxiety rushed us home to our babies. Life was sticky kisses and handprints on the wall and keeping the mudroom door shut so nobody ate the dog’s food. I wore my heart, and usually somebody else’s drool, on my sleeve. 

It wasn’t all idyllic, but I can be sentimental in hindsight, right? 

Except, apparently, when others presume that response from me.

So to those who would commiserate over my empty nest, I suppress my mental fist-pump, pray for a little grace, and respond with a simple, “Yes, it takes some getting used to.”

Should I be ecstatic?

On the other side are the folks a few years ahead of me on the parenting continuum. They celebrate the successful launch of my children and cheer me on to reclaim myself and my home. 

But they assume I’m relieved, as though my children were an invading horde that plundered all that I own, and have now moved off to conquer the next territory in their path.

Oh, wait.

Okay, they might have a point.

But perversely, to these people I long to argue that my nest isn’t truly empty. 

I want to remind them that when the fledglings fly off, their birdy parents are left with a mess of eggshells, feathers, half-digested worms, and other child-rearing detritus strewn about their nest.

Kind of like my basement.

Our children moved out and back several times between high school and adulthood. We viewed these migrations as test flights of independence, our little chicks getting ready to soar like eagles.

But apparently, our eaglets were magpies in disguise. 

With each move we accumulated several households worth of furnishings, storage trunks, and textbooks. So few of their possessions went to school with them in the fall, but an astounding amount came home in the spring. 

It is a modern-day loaves-and-fishes miracle; how one pillowed backrest and a lap desk multiplied into a futon, a papasan chair, a coffee table, a hammock, an ottoman and a giant wardrobe that likely conceals another doorway to Narnia. 

If I’m truly an empty nester, why is my basement still full of their stuff?

It’s okay to be both

The goal of parenting isn’t just to get grown children to move out of the nest.

Our goal as parents is to equip our kids to fly.

And when they do, it’s okay to feel a little contrary.

So we pump a fist, lean back against our pillowed backrest, and say, “Yes, it takes some getting used to.”