The Last College Drop Off.
Okay. Third college drop-off in six days. I promise next week we’ll get back to a medical topic.
This one is the hardest.
Why?
Because it’s the last one.
I am about to come home to a house that is decidedly emptier.
And how do I feel?
Old.
That’s the word I keep coming back to.
Old.
I don’t know why, but I keep picturing the couple from the movie Up.
And we all know how well that turned out for the wife. (If you don’t know, go watch the movie—but know that the first five minutes will leave you heartbroken.)
Now, the rational me knows I’m not that old and that my chances of dying anytime soon are low. But I feel like, with this last drop-off, I will have aged ten years.
All I can picture is coming home to a vacant, decrepit house, walking hunched over with a cane and dentures hanging out of my mouth. (I know, I know—I’m being dramatic.)
It doesn’t help that I’ve been forgetting words at an alarming rate and that my back has been forcing me to cut back on activity these last few weeks. The other day, I mowed the lawn for exactly one minute and 23 seconds before collapsing in pain as my sciatic nerve screamed at me.
This season of change is for the birds.
Estrogen was supposed to be my fountain of youth, and for the most part, it is. But even that little patch can’t compete with the drama of becoming an “empty nester.”
In my prior two blogs, I wrote about the dreams that I will reassess and the angst that comes along with them. But right now, I have to be honest: I have no energy to deal with—or express—either.
Right now, my achy body and hurting heart are looking to shut down in the solace of my bed.
Those three kids mean the world to me.
They are so much a part of my identity.
And while they will always be a part of who I am, it’s the change that’s hard to deal with.
I wonder if my partner is feeling this too.
The obvious answer would be to ask him.
But, to tell you the truth, lately we’ve been like ships passing in the night.
Our conversations revolve around the logistics of packing the car and whether we need to make another Costco trip.
We have purposefully avoided talking about our feelings of this upcoming change.
I suspect it’s because we are both trying to avoid putting any holes in the levee before we have to say goodbye to all our kids.
We’ll save the tears and fears for next week.
Well, maybe the week after. He’s on call next week.
Well, the week after that, I turn 50, so do I really want to spend that week crying?
Hmmm. Talk about avoiding feelings.
I’m just kidding. There will be tears tonight when we are met with the silence in the house. Thankfully, our dogs are not well behaved, so the quiet will be punctuated with loud barks.
We have both seen marriages fail at this stage of life. And while we think of each other as being our person, neither of us is taking the next year for granted. Over the last year, we’ve talked about what we will do to replace the cross-country meets, play performances, and managing our kids’ various “emergencies.”
He mentioned pickleball.
I pointed to my back.
I suggested doing a podcast.
He scoffed.
Reading books? I don’t think he has ever willingly read a book in the 25 years I’ve been with him.
Cooking? Nuh-uh. The best part of the kids being gone is that I can have cereal for dinner.
Traveling? Maybe. But doesn’t that require money? Our money is now being funneled to three different schools in the Midwest.
Whatever we end up deciding to do—and we may just decide to do separate things—we do know that our relationship is about to change, and we are poised to change with it.
Much like it changed 19 years ago when we welcomed these little people into our lives, this change may test us.
This time, though, there will be fewer sleepless nights and more Lucky Charms.
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