If you had told 25-year-old Margot that she would be married with a child at 34, she’d have laughed out loud. While I was in graduate school in Pittsburgh, I met the man who would become my husband. At the time, after a series of unfortunate relationships, I was not in the market for a significant other. Yet, something about him caught my fancy and soon we were dating. A year later, we were married, new parents, and moving to eastern Pennsylvania to open our own business. Eighteen years later our daughter, Avalon, started her freshman year in college. I never imagined that I could love anyone as much as I love my child. She is my best creation, by far. She continues to delight me on a daily basis. She’s my best friend, my favorite flavor, the sprinkles on my ice cream, the peanut butter to my chocolate. We’re so much alike it’s scary, yet different enough to find myriad reasons to disagree about virtually everything.
Being a mother is one of the hardest jobs on the planet. Your mission is to raise your children, equipping them with everything they need to thrive without you. You don’t get time off for good behavior, you don’t get sick days, and you don’t get any medals for your sacrifices. Your heart has to open up completely, which means that when they leave it will crumble. I didn’t know how difficult it would be. I was not prepared for the gaping hole my daughter’s absence would leave in our home. Letting her go is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Had I known just how hard it would be to let her go, perhaps I’d have been more present, more mindful, more fully in the moment with her while she was growing up. I look back at summers spent frantically chasing book deadlines, or afternoons when she’d rush in from the school bus to tell me a story and I found myself torn between working and listening intently. I’m ashamed to say that work won out more often than not. You can’t get those moments back. You can’t get the moments of exquisite boredom back, either, though you realize in hindsight just how precious they were. I’ve done a lot of deep thinking over the past few months. I’ve battled the demons of regret. I did my best, after all, and that’s pretty much all any of us can do. I’ve decided to cut myself some slack.
My wise friend Tamara once said, “Childhood is something you get over, like a bad cold.” I think she’s right on that one. My daughter knows she is loved. She’s had plenty of my time, attention, and affection. Whatever indignities she’s suffered by my less than perfect parenting have not crushed her hopes or dreams. As much as looking back may make us misty-eyed and romantic, the truth is most of us do our best as parents. We go into it with the best of intentions. We get it right some of the time and we get it wrong some of the time.
There’s the romanticized, soft-filtered, greeting-card version of parenting, and then there’s reality. Not every moment of raising children is a blissful, fun-filled, happy-go-lucky adventure. A lot of it is boring, exhausting, thankless, and unrelenting. Kicking ourselves for not parenting perfectly is absurd. Women constantly judge themselves and other women for not living up to impossible standards. I grew up in a time when kids played outside, all day long, and no one came racing after us to see what we were doing. I’m shocked that I survived childhood, considering the ill-advised nature of much of what my friends and I did together. Cries of “I’m bored” were met with sidelong glances and suggestions that we clean up our room or go play outside. I never doubted for a moment that I was loved, but I didn’t expect my busy single mother to be a one-woman entertainment committee. I learned how to entertain myself. The idea that given another chance we’d relish every second is a faulty one. If your children have left you and successfully entered adulthood, give yourself a pat on the back. You did your job.
The Summer of Frantic Denial
I have been in a mostly uninterrupted state of blissful denial this summer. Blissful denial is not quite the truth. I’ve more honestly been in a state of frantic denial. There’s been plenty of distraction from facing the empty nest. I’ve busied myself with TV appearances, packing, moving, unpacking, decorating, cleaning, and other domestic diversions. The day when my only child leaves for college is rapidly approaching. I am therefore savoring every delicious final moment. I’ve roped and wrangled her into all sorts of excursions to buy pillows, furnishings, and knickknacks. Any excuse for the two of us to slip away and enjoy an afternoon together is fair game. I don’t feel even the least bit guilty about that.
What a gift she is, and what a joy it has been to raise her. What a smart, funny, thoughtful young woman she has become.
People seem to find some sadistic joy in reminding me that she’s leaving. What is wrong with people? Can’t they see that I’m barely holding it together? Insert sound of screeching tires and shattering glass here. I can sense it coming, as they exhale, look me straight in the eye with feigned concern, and ask, “What are you going to do when she leaves? How are you feeling?”
Seriously? How do you think I feel? I feel bereft. I feel heartbroken. I feel like the soft, cozy rug is being pulled out from under me. I feel like that fucking rug has been hiding an endless pit into which I might just fall. I feel like crap. This is going to be the hardest thing that I have ever done. This is going to make me feel unfathomably miserable. There are rivers of tears preparing to flow, damn it. She’s going to be two hours away and it is going to feel like we’re on different planets. We’ve had two practice runs at this, and she’s horrible at staying in touch with us. Snapchat, you’re my only hope!
She’s my only child. There aren’t any others waiting in the wings to distract me from the sadness just a little. I can’t even begin to imagine what it will be like not having her here. I don’t want to imagine it.
How am I feeling? I am feeling awful, quite frankly.
Thanks for asking.
I’m also feeling proud, excited, and deliriously happy for her. But those feelings don’t dull the abject pain of facing the empty nest. Still, I signed up for this job 18 years ago, and this is part of the deal.
Here’s to the Summer of Frantic Denial, the Fall of Sorrow, and the Winter of My Discontent. I’m holding out hope for the Spring of Thoughtful Refocus and, upon her most auspicious return, the Summer of Love.
Empty Nest Syndrome or the Home Goods® Problem
According to Wikipedia:
EMPTY NEST SYNDROME is a feeling of grief and loneliness parents may feel when their children leave home for the first time, such as to live on their own or to attend a college or university. It is not a clinical condition.
It is not a clinical condition. Therefore, they don’t make a pill for that. They do, however, make vodka, and for that I am grateful. Note of caution: Empty nest syndrome can cause depression, loneliness, identity crisis, marital conflicts, and alcoholism. Use vodka sparingly.
The first rule of order: Take advantage of the new empty room in your house. Rather than maintaining a shrine to your not-so-wee one, take her departure as an opportunity to create a room of your own. Virginia Woolf recommended it highly. Man cave, schman cave, you need a lady room and, by golly, you’re going to get it!
I have discovered something disturbing. I’m not sure if this is a nationwide epidemic, but here’s how it played out for me. While my husband and I were moving our daughter into her dorm, we moved ourselves into a tiny apartment. I decided to toss most of our old stuff that we’d been lugging around for the past 18 years and start fresh. I was tired of looking at the same old crap. I’ve been frequenting Home Goods on a regular basis in search of new wall art and happy tchotchkes to perk up the apartment. Since I work for myself and from home, my forays into civilization, which is a hike from Amish country where we currently live, happen during weekdays.
It goes something like this . . .
Drive to the Home Goods strip mall parking lot, and find a space that requires me to walk a little bit. I have a potent combination of crafter’s and writer’s butt, and I’m making small efforts to combat the further spread of my posterior. Grab oversized cart, muttering out loud to no one in particular that these carts are too freaking big. Steer oversized cart with obstinate wheels through undersized aisles. Wait impatiently for other shoppers to peruse the variety of items on the shelves while blockading aisle with oversized shopping carts. Mutter to self that people are rude.
Meander through the aisles in search of . . . je ne sais quoi. Begin to notice a frightening pattern. You are one of dozens of women over 50 in the store, with similarly glazed expressions, also searching for something. Realize that what you are trying to find isn’t on a shelf. It’s not in a box. It isn’t tucked into a basket. What you are trying to find is a sense of purpose. What you are looking for is your mojo, which is most definitely not hiding under a decorative pillow at Home Goods. Fuck nuggets, how did that happen?
Still, this box of note cards that says “Hello, gorgeous” is oddly compelling. Toss cards into cart. This faux fur throw pillow just might be the solution to your dog hair problem! Yes! That globe, look at that globe! It’s fabulous, isn’t it? Shrugs from another shopper in aisle. Oh, maybe it’s not that fabulous. Walk away, turn around to see that sneaky shopper sneaking globe into her cart. Feel a sense of deep loss at not scoring that fabulous globe.
Make your way to the shockingly long checkout line and peruse the impulse items on the shelves lining the aisle. Toss gummy raspberries into cart, seriously contemplate the need for candy-coated pumpkin seeds. Chat with other ladies in line amicably, except for that bitch who snagged your globe. She’s dead to you. Give her meaningful side-eye glances.
Pay for your bag full of empty promises, shuffle back to your car. Feel an instant and insistent sense of ennui. Realize that you don’t even like this stuff you just bought. Consider returning it for a moment, but decide it’s not worth waiting in line and risking buying more stuff you don’t need.
I discovered that we smart, independent, capable women over 50 are looking for something vital, something that makes us feel relevant. And though we’re not sure, we think it might possibly be found on the shelves of a discount department store. Perhaps it’s the notion that if we find the right combination of things our empty house will feel like a home again—or maybe we’re trying to fill up the empty spaces in our hearts with enough knickknacks to make the pain go away.
At some point you have to fill up the empty spaces with new experiences, not new stuff. That means getting up off your sassy ass, wiping those tears away, and marching bravely forward into your future. Or, start the car and head to Target®, because maybe that’s where your mojo is.
My husband and I are still adjusting to being together all day several days a week. We both work from home when my husband isn’t out of town for work. When our daughter was here, she served as our buffer. Now that our buffer is gone, it’s just us.
Oh, hello, it’s you again.
I’m loud. I’m annoying. I talk to myself. I make up songs and sing them loudly and repeatedly. I curse at my computer and inanimate objects as if I suffer from Tourette syndrome. I don’t suffer from Tourette syndrome, but I may have a previously undiagnosed condition I’ve dubbed Rampant Potty Mouth syndrome. I’m setting up a charity, your contributions are deeply appreciated. Fuck yeah, let’s do this!
My husband has the patience of a saint, but even saints have limits. The prevailing wisdom regarding Empty Nesters is that it is a time for couples to reconnect and explore their relationship without their children.
Last week, we were in the car driving to the grocery store and my husband said, “I just figured out what’s wrong.” “What is it?” I asked. “I miss our kid,” he said, with a deep sigh.
Yeah, me too.
My first frenzied response to surviving the Empty Nest syndrome was to start a blog called Cocktails Cupcakes Crafts. I made plans for my husband and me to visit local makers of said aforementioned “C” words. So far, we’ve visited an artisanal alcohol distillery and a French bakery. My husband is not keen on further explorations, as the first two cost us just under $100. I’ve been crafting up crazy cocktails and baking all manner of decadent desserts. I’ve stocked up the cupboards and fridge with flour, sugar, chocolate chips, key limes, Meyer lemons, heavy cream, and a variety of sprinkles and colored sugars. Though my aforementioned oversized posterior is a serious concern, I figured I’d roll with it. Life is short, eat dessert. That’s the new mantra.
Well, it was the new mantra, until we were at the grocery store last week. My husband announced matter-of-factly that he’s considering giving up alcohol, carbohydrates, and sugar.
God help me.
Upon further reflection and after regaining the 10 pounds I had recently lost, I decided that the blog sounded much better on paper than it did in reality. It was just another thing that demanded attention, perfection, and time. Sure, making cocktails, cupcakes, and crafts was fun, but not when it was compulsory, a daily directive that was, in the end, just another distraction. I dialed it back a little, and now I only make cocktails, cupcakes, and crafts when the mood strikes. Much better!
We’re still finding our sea legs on this new adventure together, redefining who we are and who we are to one another. My husband travels for work when he isn’t working from home. We’re suddenly apart more than we’ve ever been before, and it’s been a challenge for both of us. It has not been as difficult for him, and that’s been difficult for me. I’ve had to pull him away from a tendency to turn inward, ask him to focus outward a little more. I’ve also had to pull myself away from a tendency to focus outward, and turn inward to find out who this new me is and what makes her excited to get up every day. We’re rediscovering ourselves and each other, remembering who we were before we were parents, charting new territory, together, again.
Oh, hello, it’s you again! Hooray!
Things to Do
Looking for things to do now that the kids are gone? Fret not—we’ve got you covered!
• Kids left home? Feeling lonely? Stalk them on social media! It’s easy and fun! Don’t bother with Facebook, they’re not there. Get a Snapchat account and give yourself a mysterious code name like StalkMuch or NotYourMom. They’ll never guess it’s you.
• Use your free time to devise new ways to make your child feel guilty for not keeping in touch. Emails! Tweets! Texts! Facebook Posts! Instagram photos with captions like “Wish you were here, but you’re not and you never call. #sadface.” and “Contact me if you see this child. #lonelymom.”
• Turn their old toys into complex sculptures and sell them at your local modern art gallery. Give them serious names like “Crap my kids broke 10 minutes after they opened it” and “This is where my money went” or “Sharp things I peeled off the bottom of my feet.”
• Rent their room on Airbnb®.
• Take up yoga. Re-envision your kid’s room as a serene escape from the frenzy of daily existence. Decorate it with vaguely Asian-influenced artifacts. Realize that yoga looks exhausting after watching a series of yoga videos. Re-envision your yoga studio as a cocktail lounge. Pour yourself some vodka and smile serenely while chanting, “Om, yes I like this drink.”
• Convince your spouse to join you on misbegotten adventures while doing research for your new blog. Call it something kicky like Xanax® and Birkenstock® or Desperately Seeking My Jawline.
• Take up nudism. Scare the shit out of the UPS guy when you forget to grab your robe before answering the door. Wave goodbye serenely while sipping your vodka. Your work is done here.
Sexy Time
Suzanne Somers wrote a book a few years back called The Sexy Years. She is a proponent of hormone replacement therapy. She claims it will restore your youth and your libido. If I could afford it, I’d gladly give it a whirl. My libido disappeared about the same time that Auntie Flo took off for parts unknown and my happacity hit the shitter.
This is me being really real, folks. We’re letting it all hang out here. Oh where, oh were has my libido gone? Oh where, oh where could it be? If you see it, please direct it to my lady parts. Thanks.
When I pitched this book you are reading, I initially had an entire chapter slated for discussing sex after 50. As you can see, I don’t have a chapter’s worth of thoughts on that topic. Forgive me. Lots of ladies have lots of sex after 50, so please don’t despair. I’m just one lady. I’m not the only lady not feeling the tingle in her nether regions after 50, but that’s okay. You don’t have to give up! Get some of that yam cream and get on with it, girl!
The loss of my libido has also made me feel less excited about the constant onslaught of soft porn on cable TV shows. Good God, I’m becoming a prude. Or am I? Is it just me? I feel like the sex in these shows is so graphic, so banal, so rudimentary, and more than occasionally violent and lacking in romance. The shock value is lost, because it’s not shocking anymore. Let’s be honest: Real sex is not pretty. I know people do it, but I don’t wish to observe.
It’s hard to feel sexy when the prevailing narrative strongly implies that you are no longer sexually appealing. Not that I’m blaming the narrative, mind you, but it isn’t helping the story line. As I’ve mentioned before, biologically speaking, my need to procreate is no longer primal. My need to be touched, caressed, cherished is still there. It’s just not being met with affirmative action from my hormones.
I can’t offer advice on sex after 50, since I am not having much of it. If feeling sexy after 50 is important to you, then make it your mission to figure it out. Now that my daughter is away and my husband and I are home alone, perhaps we will figure it out, too. Meantime, the irony of finally having the freedom to be sexy whenever we please coinciding with the unceremonious departure of desire is not lost on me, much the way the ability to sleep in has been countered with my circadian clock chiming a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call each morning. There is a lot of irony in aging, isn’t there?
All hope is not lost. We still have love and laughter and friendship—and passion that has not gone forever; it’s just on hiatus. Our sexy time will come again. Pun intended. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
Come on, ladies, we have to laugh at this shit or we’ll cry.