Vacation Is a Tease

I don’t really like this whole empty nest concept. I prefer the house full to overflowing, no matter how many glasses I gather up each morning, no matter how many shoes I stumble over on my way in the back door. I like the sound of all our children in the house, gathered in the living room, which might as well be a seasonal room, since we use it mostly around the holidays—tree in one corner, card table ready for backgammon, gas fire lit.  I like knowing when I wake in the early morning that the kids are all still sleeping, breathing, in their beds.

But vacation ends. The girls and Cole and Sara go back to NYC. Atticus goes, too, for a bit, and Seth and I look at each other, glum. We settle into our chairs in the family room, sighing at the decorations that need to be taken down and put away, the inflatables on the lawn that are now deflated, covered in snow.

Atticus returns to have his wisdom teeth taken out, and on that very day, I sneeze a million times, rolling gauze and trying not to sneeze directly on him.

“Mom,” one of the girls says on Facetime, “Do a Covid test, so you don’t make him nervous.”

“I do not have Covid,” I retort. “I’m fine.”

“For Atticus, Mom,” the daughter insists—both of them? We frequently indulge in group Facetimes.

“Okay, okay.” I dig the Covid test out from the cat food shelf, find the directions, swab my nostrils—a ritual that feels like some sort of an ancient rite. I tuck the swab into the hole and fold the cover down and set a clock, certain that I am fine, and, the pink line is incontrovertible ten minutes later.

I gather my belongings, find a mask, take myself up to Cordelia’s lovely bed and settle down. I can hear Seth and Atticus on the other side of the door.

I am worried about my son, but Seth turns out to be an excellent nurse, feeding me pretty much what he offers Atticus: a milkshake, mashed potatoes, rice pudding. When I cannot stop shivering, he, masked, covers me in quilts, proffers the thermometer.  After the fever breaks, my confinement feels a bit like being in a cocoon.  I huddle into the covers, knowing that I will share big news when I emerge.  I nibble Wheat Thins, take Tylenol, sip Ginger ale mixed with Grape Juice, a childhood remedy. Eventually, I feel strong enough to take a bath.  Atticus sends me Instagram cat videos. I sleep, watch The Buccaneers, watch Astrid, tell Seth he may NOT finish Friday Night Lights without me. I creep downstairs to collect some water colors and play with paint on a tray on my lap in bed, feeling like a little girl.  It is not all bad.  But mostly, I am sad to miss my time with our son. Having him home again feels normal, the way it’s supposed to be.

Finally, he is able to eat again and I am fully recovered. The three of us go to see Boys in the Boat—no popcorn for Atticus and no straw. Afterwards, in the car, heading for ice cream at Mitchesll’s we compare the book and the movie; one of Atticus’ best friends rows crew, and my dad rowed at Penn.  This is how it’s supposed to be—the three of us. No, this is how it used to be for a long time. Even as I revel in the evening, I know it’s temporary; time is running out.

When I share my big news—I am retiring from my school in 18 months--Atticus and Seth stand in the back of the Chapel. Their presence buoys me.

“You’ll cry when you tell the girls,” Atticus warns after I rehearsed last weekend.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I probably will, but I’m glad you’ll be there with me.” My headship is as old as he is. He was an infant in my arms at my first faculty meeting.

After I tell our Upper School students, Seth and Atticus announce we are going out for dinner.

“To celebrate,” they say. I am touched, learning only later that it had been Erin’s idea—Erin is my amazing assistant; she knows this week has been a lot. At dinner, my phone blows up with texts from colleagues—will we cancel school because of the cold? More texts roll in. I need to make a decision.

“Boy, Mom, you are fun to spend time with,” my son smiles.

“Be nice,” Seth chides. “She has to do this—it’s her job.”

I call a cold day and two days later a snow day in anticipation of the storm that has been forecast.  Seth and Atticus brave the blizzard to shop for gear Seth needs for his upcoming trip to Antarctica. I love that Atticus is both the fashion and the gear consultant.  I work all day on Zoom, but it is fun to be at home, as if I am inside a snow globe. Seth models the gear; they have done a good job.

“Kids still text me,” Atticus says about the snow day call. “They think I have the inside track, like I still go to school here.” He grins.  When he was in high school, kids from lots of schools would ask him if I planned to cancel school. His influence was considered vast.

On his last night at home, we finished Friday Night Lights—despite himself, he got drawn in.  This last episode was all about endings. I remind myself that endings are a part of life. Shows end. Vacations end. Chapters end.  But I am still a little teary—though I blame it on the show, my son isn’t fooled.  We can’t always spend the time we want to spend with one another the way we want to spend it—wisdom teeth, Covid, school, distractions…and now we are out of time. We’ve packed his suitcase and his duffle, put his liquids into Ziplock bags. Reluctant to end the evening, we hung out, Atticus and I together on the couch, Seth in his chair. Finally, we headed upstairs.

And this morning, he hugged each dog, patted each cat, murmured his goodbyes to these creatures who will not understand where he has gone.

“Hurry,” I fussed, “I don’t want you to miss your plane.”

I squeezed him fiercely, managed not to cry. “It’s only college,” I said firmly to myself. “He’s happy there.”

I know all that. And yet.

The molecules shift and change. He’s gone for now. Each time he leaves means moving closer to the time when he no longer slots back into the way it used to be.

I am proud of him, a little embarrassed by how much I miss him.  And very, very lucky to have children that we love so much.