Family Chuckle: The benefits of an empty nest
I know there aren’t many benefits to growing old. Of course, there’s that head full of knowledge that you’d love to share, but nobody wants to listen to it. You know all about child-rearing, but the rules have changed. You know how to pinch a food dollar until it screams for mercy, and feed an army on a pound of hamburger, but you no longer need to feed an army. The nest is empty.
At first I thought the empty nest was a sad state of affairs, but I’ve realized there are benefits. One of them is that for the first time in years, you can be sick without feeling you’re short-changing your family.
As a child, sickness meant loving care and zero responsibilities. It meant Vicks Vapo-Rub on your chest, covered by a warm washcloth, fresh out of being toasted in the oven. It meant Dad driving down to the corner country store to get pineapple juice, a special treat for sick kids. It meant Mom’s delicious potato soup or hot chicken soup, the Lipton kind with little teeny noodles, and hot lemonade. I hated that last part, but Dad was convinced it would cure almost anything but dandruff.
When I had a tonsillectomy, it meant a book of Shirley Temple paper dolls, a coloring book and my first king-size box of Crayolas. And warm Jell-O to drink, and popsicles to soothe my throat.
When I was hospitalized with pneumonia, it meant coming home wrapped in quilts, and sleeping on the couch Christmas Eve, so I could watch the bubble lights on the tree and bask in the warmth of the oil heater.
Even when I was bedfast for six weeks with rheumatic fever, the level of care never wavered. As winter turned into spring outside my bedroom window, Mom gave up her love of reading while eating her lunch. Instead, she brought in a tray and we had lunch together. She sacrificed the soap operas she faithfully followed while doing housework, and put the radio in my room instead. Sometimes if “Stella Dallas” or “Backstreet Wife” featured a cliff-hanging crisis, she’d join me for the 15-minute episode. I have to confess that in my boredom, I began to appreciate daytime radio.
When our own children came along, I tried to emulate Mom, but I’m afraid I failed miserably. There’s something about a virus traveling through the family from Christmas to Easter that just sucks the Mother Theresa out of motherhood. You can only play so many games of “Old Maid” or “Go Fish” before you crack. Remembering which color of Jell-O is which child’s favorite strains your brain, and the one who wants strawberry gets lime instead. You get so tired of stripping beds and putting clean pajamas on kids in the middle of the night, that when the illness finally hits you, you’re just grateful to lie down. The 7-Up is flat and the crackers are stale, but you don’t care. I’m ashamed to reveal that when I called Mom to whine during one of those three-month virus captivities, she told me that someday I’d realize these were the best years of my life, and I hung up on her.
When the kids are a little older, a mother faces another illness problem: Does this child have the flu, or is it math-itis? It’s embarrassing to make a wrong decision and get a phone call at work from the school secretary, telling you to come get your child, who just threw up on her desk.
A mother does the best she can manage when her kids are sick. But when mom is ill, it’s a different story. She can expect loud stage-whispers as one child asks another, “Is she STILL asleep?” and sticky fingers pulling up an eyelid with the childhood mantra of “What’s for snack?” She knows that when she finally staggers out of bed, she’ll find a sink full of dirty dishes and an overflowing laundry hamper. She begins to wonder if she was really cut out for motherhood.
And then comes the empty nest. You have a headache, and the chills. You take two aspirins and a cup of Gypsy Cold Relief tea, put on your flannel nightgown and wool socks, turn the electric blanket up to “incubate,” and climb into bed. You can lie in that cozy nest as long as you need. There’s nobody in the house counting on you for their next meal. If you ask for the TV to be turned down, nobody is going to protest, “But M-m-o-m…”
Nobody can make potato soup like my mother, but even my husband can manage Lipton’s soup with the teeny noodles. If I want 7-Up, it won’t be flat. I’ll pop the top of a cold can. I’ll bet someone will drive to the store for pineapple juice.
Now I’m turning the electric blanket to “incubate.” I don’t know if I’ll have Gypsy Cold tea, or maybe peppermint would clear my sinuses. I could leaf through the Shirley Temple paper doll book I found at an antiques store a while back, but I think I’ll take a nap instead.
The empty nest has its good points!
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