A Slice of Paradise

It's said that if you spread your bundles of joy with a few years in-between, they won't abandon you all at once. I'm not sure how Ken and I managed it, but the good Lord must have lent a hand as the kids left in tolerable stages.

Our son was born six years ahead of our daughters. My men had close times with all their guy stuff, while the girls and I were involved in perpetual tea parties, dance lessons, and Girl Scouts. After a little arm-twisting and greasing his palm, our son became a fine built-in babysitter. No more packing a half-asleep sitter into the car and driving her across town after midnight.

The day came when our son, his mini fridge, and his truck went off to college--followed by a stint in the military. But for two smart and spirited teenyboppers keeping us on our toes, we'd have been as homesick for him as he was for us.

A mere two grades apart, the girls savored their own special friends. Sports and cheerleading became their lives as they, too, sailed right past us, but always saving Sunday for family fun.

Then suddenly, no more relaxing on Saturdays with pancakes in the shape of bunnies and bears, or giggly campouts in the backyard playhouse. No more carpools with half a dozen dusty ball players, their bags, and overflowing Slurpies. No more freaky music that fairly rocked the house off its moorings. No more endless hours of clandestine phone calls.

When the older daughter hit the college dorms, I looked forward to less laundry. But her big laundry bag appeared in our hallway more often than not. The grocery bill looked like the national debt after numerous weekends of roommates and college chums rolling out sleeping bags upstairs and down.

The second daughter finished college, got married, and cast off to new horizons as we waved and threw weepy kisses. They had grown up, giving pleasure to replace any pain of their teen years. That made it all so worthwhile.

Ken and I looked at each other like strangers, barely knowing how to act in the sobering silence of our big deserted house. It was soon apparent that nobody left was handy with yard chores and window washing. We rattled about, living with empty rooms that cried out for fun, tempestuous moments, and raging hormones.

Finally, I took the bull by the horns, called our realtor, and viewed a glorious piece of wooded and streamed acreage teeming with wildlife. We had dreamed about a log home in the mountains only twenty minutes from town. So we did it. We kicked our traces. The old house in town sold with grand memories and no regrets. Now we were land owners with our own paradise.

I drew plans and ordered logs. Suddenly, along came our brood with their campers on more weekends than we could count. They helped us with the logs, the windows, the doors, and the roof, until three months later our son and his dad drove in the last spikes atop the loft. What was supposed to be a log cabin turned into a family lodge for any-and-all who cared to stay and saddle a bronc. We forged a homestead in God's wilderness that has kept our children returning and loving every minute of their parents' grit.

So the question arises... were we ever really empty nesters? Yes, but we unwittingly and happily waylaid its onset. We've sat and rocked in front of the fire on two-dog nights, swapping old times and old photos back and forth with adult children. What a grand celebration of a new lifestyle as I flipped a bunny pancake for our first grandbaby.

We sometimes yearn for the sleepless nights when the children were out; now it's our backs and knees that are out. Occasionally, the nest feels emptier than we like. We miss those magnificent beings we so lovingly shaped and molded into success stories. But we take some pleasure and pride in knowing we were adequate role models.

Not long ago I heard our youngest daughter remark, "I have every intention of raising my kids just like I was raised."

For us, that says it all.