September 12th, 2024
By Bonnie Tarantino
When the kids were young, and all hell would break loose, I had a little mantra that I would say to myself. “Get down on the floor…get down on the floor”. And I would. Like ducking in the crossfire, I would put down whatever I was doing, turn off the TV or stereo, drop to the floor, scoot my back up to something, and yell, “We need to make a little nest.”
After a while, the kids knew the cue and would go grab their binkies, stuffed animals, blankies, and pillows and drag the big heavy blanket off the couch. There on the floor amongst tears and snot and screaming and crying, we would scooch things around, tuck everyone in, ground ourselves, and cuddle up till all we could hear was my quiet “shhhhhh”. Finally, our gentle, spent breath was even again. Sometimes, one would say sorry, and the wailing would begin again; sometimes, one would kick the other, and it would start up again. Like all great storms, it would soon pass, and they would forget the whole ordeal in a split second. As they got older, they built more extensive, ambitious forts with friends on rainy days. They started handling their fights without me by putting “Do Not Enter!” and “Stay Out” in angry big letters on their bedroom doors. Secretly, though, they would sneak into Scott’s and my bed sometimes in desperate adolescent moments, knowing they still needed more feathers, knowing they were still missing something. Then, one day, one by one, they packed up their nests and set up their dorm rooms, waving to us goodbye. Now, two of the three have their own homes on opposite sides of the country, while the third is getting used to her freshman college roommate from Beijing.
When I first became a mother, I found I had entered a secret world of women. With gentle advice and well-timed support, these more seasoned mothers taught me how to keep my little ones safe while staying sane. Now, I have entered a new level of being a mother. I am an empty nester and I have found another room of this secret club waiting for me. Now, these moms have more time on their hands. They are not rushing to catch the kid off the slide or bus or tearing out the driveway in their suburban to ensure they are not late for the lacrosse practice. Instead, they can have lunch, they can take long hikes, they say/text sweet things like, “It will get better, and then it will get great.” “They come back… believe me.” “It is so quiet, isn’t it?…. But also kind of nice.” “Food shopping is so weird, but you will get used to it?” “Fk it.. don’t’ cook so much… go out.” “You have to read this book cause you can now.” “But doesn’t the house stay so clean?” They even run out of their house after seeing me walking Walter to give me a big hugs.
Mel Robbins just dropped an excellent podcast on being an empty nester. She and I are the same age, and both have just sent our last child off to school. One of the first things she mentions is how unprepared she was for this moment. She gives the analogy of knowing a big snowstorm is coming, and then it comes. The following day, you know you must go out to plow the snow, to make your own way into the world, but find that you are ill-equipped with only a spoon. And that put words to this feeling I have of “What the fuck now? Why am I not more prepared?” To further take Mel’s advice, she urges us not to know for a while. To free fall. To follow the breadcrumbs. To allow things to come, to dwell on how good my kids are doing and what it took to get them there, and to start this new part of my life by taking really good care of myself.
In the meantime, my kids have been dropping breadcrumbs of their own. Lucia called the week before Maya went off to college and said, “Mom, come out here, and let’s hike and go to a concert at Red Rocks.. book a ticket this September.” And this giant breadcrumb has led me here to wake early to write this essay from her cozy basement, where I sit/sleep on a comfortable nest she made for me with her serious camping gear. I noticed there is a lovely candle for me to light, a worn ashtray tucked away with hints of fun ash from a small colorful glass pipe, and resting under my head, a soft pillowcase from home. Of course, she offered me her room several times, but it is too hot upstairs for my menopausal gage. The basement is finished and cool and offers a big window well that streams light from the trees above. When we moved her in five years ago, I bought a Buddha and secretly placed it at the base of the well for her to discover after I left. It sits there still, peacefully, an ever-present sacred palm reaching out to protect and bless the house. “Shh” it says
Last night, for dinner, Lucia made a fantastic kale salad with quinoa, avocado, apples, and cashews, a recipe from my good friend Staci. Lucia is now just as famous for making this salad for her friends as I am to mine. As we prepared for bed last night, she kept mothering me, ensuring I had everything I needed, saying, “Don’t forget you need to drink a lot of water, Mom, it is so dry here. Put lip balm on. Do you have some? If you need lotion let me know.” She showed me how to work the electric teapot and where the tea bags and mugs were, “Cause you will get up early with the time change, and I know you like tea when you wake.” She even plugged in her star projector in the bathroom so that when I took my shower last night, I had the universe magically pulsing all around me. (Another trick she brought with her to feather the nest. I love star projectors!). And this is receiving, the part that fills the hole they leave when they leave. She has been listening, learning, and watching me all these years. She knows how to effortlessly and magically nurture. How to care for herself so much that she can be generous with others.
And she is not the only one. Right before I left for Colorado, Jack, my 24-year-old son, arrived home from San Diego for two weeks. His remote job allows him to work from wherever he wants and often allows him time to check in with us. When I saw him just yesterday before leaving for the airport to catch my flight to see Lu, he took me in his arms and asked, “How you doing littIe Mamma?” That is what he calls me now that he is man, “little Mamma” and there is something about how he says it, in his protective, playful voice, that makes me so proud of the strong man he has become. You want your son, in the end, to be the kind of man who protects women and children, and he is that and more. He is the kind of man who will protect everyone he loves, which is why I believe he is also home to check on someone else…his Dad. While I am away with Lu, they will play golf, defrost, and cook the stuffed shells I left for them and eat while watching more golf.
I know where Jack gets his protective and attentive nature; he learned it well from his Dad. Last weekend, I overheard Scott turn down an offer to play golf, “I want to spend time with Bonnie, we are adjusting to Maya going off to school. I have had a busy week, and I have not been around much for her.” In the end, I sent him off to play golf anyway because, truly, I am good and can go on and on about why. Love is all around me, and I have trained myself to look for it. When you look for it, you will find it every time. That is one good thing about slowing down with only a spoon…you don’t miss as much. So, along with a big thank you, I want to say I am doing well, and maybe that little spoon I have to dig me out a new path is small because I am supposed to take my time and treasure who shows up to help dig a little bit deeper with me while I feather a new nest.
