A Different Kind of Nest
OH, I CAN HARDLY SAY IT. I can hardly type it. I can hardly think it. Well, all right, here goes—empty nest. Now, that's taken care of. And you know what? It wasn't so bad after all. In fact, the EN Syndrome that many women face and fear is actually a misnomer. It should be renamed the Expanded Nest Syndrome or the Move-Over Nest Syndrome. Let me explain.
I was describing to my grandchildren the other day the little bird nest just outside my back door. The parent birds had been building the nest for quite sometime and I could feel their anticipation as they brought sticks, lint, and pieces of dried flowers to make their little home. The first visit we made to peek at the nest was so wonderful! There were five little blue eggs! The second visit a few days later was one of sheer joy to all of us—five little birds, barely hatched. Then, to avoid scaring the mother and father, we let the nest be for about a week. When we looked in a third time, they were gone! My first inclination was to look on the ground in case they had fallen out. No birds in sight. It had been time for them to move on. We were all a little disappointed and surprised that all we saw was an empty nest. We had been witnesses to the miracle and cycle of a family. We talked about how it is the same in our own families. Parents provide the nest or the crib. They provide the worms or the food. They sit on you or protect you until you are old enough to leave the nest or the home and fly away. They will always love you. But when their babies are gone, parent's lives continue onward to new nests and other activities. My life will never be the same again.
My husband and I once shared a nest with nine children. Eight of our nine children are married with families of their own. Our last child, a daughter, is on a mission in England. As I watched her fly away, I came home and started sifting around in my empty nest for maybe just one more baby to rear. To my surprise, I found my nest completely filled with a great big Daddy Bird. In my child-rearing season that included almost seven years of pregnancy, twenty years of actual child-bearing, and forty years of sitting on the nest, I had forgotten that the nest included that other guy that helped build it. That emotional day when we came home from the airport together after saying good-bye to our "baby" was an epiphany. Why, he was like a new man! He became Mr. Fix-it. He fixed everything he could think of in our fifty-year-old home that had not just been a nest for our birds, but for his mother's eight as well. He painted three bedrooms, fixed leaky toilets, took a turn walking the dogs, and—here is the best part—he started cooking! He cooks dinner every night. This was unheard of back in the days when I really needed him. My nest may now have no eggs or babies, but it has become what it was intended to be: a cozy dwelling for two.
The road to an empty nest started five years ago, when I followed my doctor's advice and got a hysterectomy. He assured me that my hormones would be balanced and that I would feel generally much better. I was not prepared for the emotional side effects. The eggs were gone, no chance of any more production. Yet for some reason, the finality of it all was terribly depressing for me. I became jealous of my pregnant daughters and wished it was me with the big belly. I wanted to wear the darling maternity clothes that were so cute the way they emphasized the tummy. For my nine pregnancies, I always resorted to the available big shirts (sometimes out of my husband's closet) and jumpers that made me look like a tent. That envy didn't last long, however. When my daughters and their newborns were discharged from the hospital and came home to their houses full of hyper, needy children, I was so grateful that my childbearing years were in the rear view mirror.
But, you ask, what about the calls of little voices in the air, the rock music playing way too loud, the basketball games to attend, the church activities, the food shortage, the money shortage? Gone. And gone with all that are the demands of motherhood. A peaceable kingdom has arrived at my nest. A kingdom that now ushers in grown children with spouses and children of their own. A kingdom that is ruled by two, not by carpools and camping trips. Evenings are pleasant and quiet as we sit under the carport waiting for someone to come to visit. We often go for leisurely drives or to a movie. We walk the dogs together. We don't need babysitters or permission to do whatever we want. Love is blossoming again.
Days after our daughter left our nest my husband invited me to go on a glorious trip with him. We drove cross-country, over six thousand miles, in our sedan and had a dream-come-true-experience. We realized how much alike we really were. We wanted to see the same sights. We got tired together. We needed to use the restroom at the same time. We weren't fussy about where we stopped to eat. We both decided we were huge Elvis fans after we went through Graceland. We cried together at many of the sights of the Revolutionary War and at the big hole in lower Manhattan. We not only discovered how much we loved our country but how much we loved each other. We had some good laughs and made some amazing memories. When we returned, there was the nest awaiting us with open arms, and grandchildren jumping on the trampoline yelling “Welcome Home Umi and Grandpa!”
I wonder if parent birds ever revisit the nest where they once raised babies from eggs. I'm not sure how helpful that would be. As it turns out, there is so much to do when your nest is empty. There is migration, building of new nests and sharing the skies and trees with fellow birds. I have a new perspective on the syndrome now. When I come home from shopping, or visiting my neighbors or going to lunch with friends I don't look for children. I don't pick up clothes or pillows, I don't listen for music or computer games. I go right to my husband's office, we sit and talk, and then he says, "What would you like for dinner?”
Cindy Clark lives in Provo, Utah. She is the mother of nine children and twenty-eight grandchildren. Currently, she is working toward a degree in American studies at Brigham Young University. She loves to travel with her husband and gets really nervous when the Yankees are playing.
