As I pulled into my parking stall after taking Jen to the airport Kev to daycare, it hit me. Today is the day that I would have become an ‘empty nester,’ a time parents both dread and eagerly anticipate when the last child leaves home.
For some reason this concept never really applied to me, or so I thought. Empty nesters are fifty-ish, greying hair, bifocals, and married. None of those qualifications apply to me. I’m forty-two, brunette hair, just barely started wearing reading glasses, and am happily divorced for ten years. How could I be an empty nester?
It seems regardless of your qualifications, when the youngest leaves home, the nest is empty and, by default, you become an ‘empty-nester.’ My youngest child moved out today, but I’ve got another twenty years to go till my nest is really empty.
The years after graduating from nursing and before retirement were to be ‘my’ years. I’d done my job and raised my two children. Freedom from child-rearing meant I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, and how I wanted. If I wanted to work an extra shift or two, or work three in a row (which I never EVER do now), it was up to me. On my off time, I would be able to go to the gym as often as I liked and for as long as I liked. With my huge paycheques I was going to be able to travel. If I wanted to go work up North, I could have done so.
Sometimes unexpected things come up and plans change. You can accept things as they are and be happy, or you can fight the change and be miserable. “Mom, I’m pregnant,” is one of those life-changing statements that you are somehow just never prepared to hear. Especially when the mother to be is a mere 17 years of age and has adamantly stated that she never wants to have children of her own. Ever.
Because of my personal opinion on abortion and because this was my own flesh and blood we were discussing, and because I feared for her mental health should she chose abortion, I strongly discouraged that route. Adoption was the next option, but it was never a realistic option. From the moment that I knew I was going to be a Grandmother, I loved the unborn child and eagerly anticipated his/her arrival. There was never a question in my mind that this child would be loved and well cared for and he would stay with his birth mother or me. I was not going to be denied a part in my grandchild’s life, regardless of the circumstances.
Kev was born March 30, 2008, several weeks premature. His entry into the world went quite smoothly right up until the very last ten minutes or so. An emergency team was called in and he was hurried into this world with mechanical assistance. I remember the nursing staff being very calm, but I could see the tell-tale looks on their faces (nurses always know when other nurses are worried). I mouthed across my daughter’s belly to her nurse, “is he going to be okay?” She nodded. I asked if she was sure, and she nodded again. Kev came out a grayish white sort of color, not breathing. My heart sank and I thought for a moment I would vomit. After some Narcan (a medication used to reverse the effects of narcotics), he pinked up and started crying. Tears entered my eyes and my world changed in that one moment.
For the first few weeks the birth mother tried desperately to be a good mother, but then post-partum depression set in. She and Kev took the train to her Dad’s in Alberta. Within two weeks I got a phone call from her dad who is always calm no matter the situation. He told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to come pick up Jen and Kev, or they would put Jen on a plane to Winnipeg and keep Kev until she was ready to be a mom. Wow. My world came crashing down and I took the necessary time off and met them in Brandon. And when I saw Kev again, I resolved that he would never again be away from my care in that way again.
Kev and his mother returned home, and for the next three months we shared the parenting duties. She watched him while I worked, and I took care of him when I wasn’t working. Things started to fall apart, and she felt unable to watch him while I went to work, so I found babysitters. It wasn’t long after that she signed the guardianship papers. It was not an easy decision for her to make, she wanted desperately to be a good Mommy to Kev but knew it was likely not a realistic scenario. She needed to finish high school and I did not want her caught up in the welfare cycle.
During the first few months of his life she and I went for several counseling sessions and I was able to admit that I was hugely resentful towards her for putting me in the position where I had to do the right thing. I was angry because she had ‘taken’ my freedom. Loving Kev was never in question, I’ve loved him since before birth.
Since I’ve assumed guardianship we’ve had some good times and some bad times. Its only in the last few months that our relationship has declined to the point where I knew we could no longer continue living together and raise Kev as a team. Her independence clashed with my need for control and vice versa. It wasn’t pretty! I love my baby girl, but boy, does she ever drive me crazy!! We knew that if we were ever to have a working relationship, or a good relationship, we would need to live in separate homes. At the end of October I informed her that Kev and I would be moving out to the country in January, February or March, and she would need to find a place to live by then, as I would only be renting a two bedroom home. I doubt very much whether this was as much of a surprise for her as it was for me.
Things went exponentially down hill right up till the time of her departure. It hurts that she left ‘angry’, so to speak. The expression ‘don’t let the sun go down upon your wrath’ seems to be quite fitting in this situation, except that we did let the sun go down while still angry with one another.
The only thing worse than the frequent disagreements is the guilt that I’m feeling over the relief of not having to fight with her anymore. It almost makes me feel as though I have failed at being a mother to her, and that’s a horrible feeling. Mothers, the good ones anyway, are supposed to get along with their children and never feel the slightest bit happy when they leave home. Or so I’ve been told (not in words) my whole life.
My mother doesn’t understand how I cannot be worried about Jen moving so far away, nor does she understand how I could be so cruel as to tell Jen that if things don’t work out for her and her boyfriend, she’s no longer welcome to live with me and Kev. What kind of person does that make me?! I’ve struggled with this guilt a lot lately, and more so now that she’s actually gone.
My reason for encouraging her to move out of my home is very simple. Kev should not be seeing her treat me poorly, and he shouldn’t have to be familiar with the feeling of tension in the air when his two favorite people are angry with each other but not speaking. The tension between her and I was a huge energy-sucker and emotionally draining.
I am certain she will thrive once settled in and away from me, and I believe I will do the same. She and I are two peas in a pod; I’m certain that our similarities are a large contributing factor to our inability to living together.
I love Kev and am committed 110% to being the best parent to him that I can be but there is still some resentment over being ‘forced’ to make the ‘right’ choice. I’d be lying if I said I was thrilled to pieces that I’ve got to pay for childcare for another ten years, or that I’ve had to make some huge attitude adjustments in my expectations of the empty-nest years.
However, I am thrilled to pieces that Kev has become an integral part of my world and I will protect him with my life
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