My spouse Helen and I drove our son to start his first year of college this week. He’s eager to begin his new adventures; Helen and I went through a few tissues on the way home. Here are a few thoughts on becoming an empty nester.
First, empty nesting is perhaps an overstatement at this point. We’re already planning to see our son at Thanksgiving and winter break, and will probably do so over spring break and next summer, too. As the years go on, of course, he’ll likely be off with friends or doing internships elsewhere at these times. We’ll enjoy every moment we get with him, though, and be grateful for modern technologies that let us stay in touch even when physically remote.
Still, we’re trying very hard to give him some space to enjoy his new-found independence. We’re also focusing on keeping ourselves busy as we shift into a life without him here all the time. Even when he was little, however, I tried not to define my whole self in terms of parenthood (as important as being a parent was and is). I think it’s healthy for both parents and children when the parents have some interests and activities separate from our kids’ (even if we must sometimes prioritize theirs); it helps keep us from being helicopter parents. Besides, it’s not very good marketing for the institution of parenthood if it seems like one has to lose one’s self in order to participate in it.
Luckily, Helen and I each have hobbies aplenty—and are also looking forward to traveling (COVID permitting) to some of the places that we didn’t get to on our family trips because they were of less interest to our son. I know that reconnecting as a couple is important for any empty-nest pair, and I’m looking forward to doing so.
There is precious little support specific to queer parents as we acclimatize to life as empty nesters. I’ve often heard from queer folks that when they first became parents, they felt a sense of separation from their child-free friends and a disconnect from many queer social activities (even though many of those activities have become family-inclusive in recent years). Things shift upon parenthood. We may not have time to participate in our own softball league if we’re taking our kids to theirs. We may not be able to meet our friends for a weekend in P’town if our kid has a band concert. Empty nests can mean trying to reconnect with all that.
I know I’m not the only one to feel this. Rachel Pepper, despite being the author of the classic book The Ultimate Guide to Pregnancy for Lesbians, also noted a few years ago in Mutha Magazine that:
There is no “Ultimate Guide to Parenting Adults for Lesbians”, no “Empty Nest Essentials for Queers.” Where is the tribe of survivors of this unexpected affliction, emerging unscathed at the other end of the Gayby Boom? No longer easily identified as a parent, since there’s no child on my hip or striding ahead of me, I am merely, and oh so blandly, simply back to being me. Where is the support group to guide us through this cataclysmic change?
Additionally, our recognition as part of a queer family is no longer the same. Kids can force one to be out in ways one didn’t expect—many a queer parent has a tale of being “outed” in the grocery store by their toddler. Conversely, take away the kid, and one’s identity as part of a queer family can become less obvious. Perhaps I should start making a point of wearing a rainbow pin or some such.
Most of my feelings about being an empty nester are, however, universal to parents of all sexual orientations and genders: I simply miss having my kid around, even as I am full of pride for who he is becoming. That old saying about long days and short years? Totally true. And I teared up a little when I realized I didn’t have to set a place for our son at the dinner table last night.
93 days until Thanksgiving break. But who’s counting?
