My husband and I raised five children. Or perhaps they raised us. At times who was doing the raising was up for grabs. Our home was the repository of footballs and the requisite cleats; flutes and trombones; backpacks and camping gear.
The children have left home and established their own homes now. Larry and I are officially empty-nesters.
A few years ago, we decided that our nest needed some refeathering. After more than thirty years of choosing materials designed to hide dirt, grass stains, and a host of other less than pristine matter, I indulged myself. I even included a few eccentricites, such as a chair shaped like a high heeled shoe.
Our refeathered nest will never be featured in the pages of Home and Garden; however, it suits us. Lately, we've been making plans to add a room off the kitchen, a room large enough to host big family dinners and birthday parties. What were we doing, I wondered? Our nest was empty, and I wanted to enlarge it to bring home my fledglings? Foolish, indeed.
I came to the conclusion that though my nest might be empty, my heart will always be that of a mother. Next week, the quiet and relative cleanliness of the house will be challenged as two grandsons, ages six and three, arrive for a visit. Noise and confusion will reign and undoubtedly triumph. I will rejoice and despair of it at the same time.
So, for today, I am grateful an empty nest and for the times when it is once again filled.
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