When your last little darling finally goes off into the sunset — in our case, to go and live with their boyfriend in the hills of Arroyo Seco — initially you miss them. You are happy for them that they are happy and on a good track in life; you raise them so that they can function without you and all; but the empty nest syndrome is a real thing. After decades of hustle and bustle, it’s just you and him. In our case, it had never been just he and I, since we met, dated and then merged our children from former lives and became one; so, this new world of him and I was all a bit weird.
We should have been exhilarated that, finally, it was just us lovebirds, alone again naturally, as the song goes. But it was not like that at all. The house was oddly quiet and empty. The alone time was just alone. The sounds of banging doors and someone else’s TV preferences had left only a memory, in addition to leftover laundry and the odd discarded pot of empty shampoo. The house felt vacuous and vacated. Finally, all the children had left and they, likely, weren’t coming back, except for the odd holiday visit.
Since the youngest and her husband are moving to Montana in about 18 months, we had told them a while ago to move themselves and their entourage (which is considerable) into our house and save their money for their new life ahead. They didn’t think that was such a great idea at the time, so we dropped it. Then, hark, all of a sudden, it was a marvelous idea. The landlord was raising their rent again and they felt it was time to rev up for their next adventure. They had less than a month to get moved over here after five years of residing away at the hacienda, seemingly collecting critters.
I instantly felt energized by this shift in my house and life and thoughtfully did my part, by cleaning out the two spare rooms for them in the course of a weekend. “Mum, you have too much stuff!” daughter noted, helpfully, from afar when I told her that I had purchased boxes so I could get everything quickly out of the rooms for her and that I would deal with the stuff later.
The plan was for the young ones to move into storage all their possessions that they would then later take to Montana. That way they could just bring over the bare minimum to the house. That seemed really doable, until I opened my eyes to the fact that “bare minimum” does mean their Noah’s Ark of five dogs, a covey of quail, nine goats, multiple chickens and a rooster, not to mention the horse trailer and boat… and… who knows how many cats… all coming to my place up in the hills. And that is where the second spare room or Lucy’s former office comes in.
Since they have several indoor or disabled cats, the felines needed their own room, a cat palace if you will. Inside my house. With a door that will shut very firmly. Never mind, I have one particular dog that hates cats with passion and would do anything to break down the door to the cat palace and cause all kinds of mayhem. Here we are, all going to be one big happy family, aren’t we.
Our middle son and his wife and cat always come for Thanksgiving. We told him we were going to be quite the full house this year and he rather pouted when we told him the inn was a bit chocka-block overflowing this time around. “Well, in that case, we can only come for one night, because it’s so expensive staying in a hotel.” He exclaimed. (Say, what? Who always provides the money for the food and so on?) Anyway, I felt bad that we couldn’t accommodate them in the usual way, as parents do, and now, good result for them, they are going to be happily staying in my room, and I shall be on the couch for a few days. (“What?” said youngest child. “They are kicking you out of your room?”) You do what you can to keep everyone happy, don’t you, even when the children are full-grown adults. I can’t wait to re-watch the holiday shows about dysfunctional families. Maybe I will do that when I’m on the couch this Thanksgiving. The other amusing thing is that the middle child does not care for dogs and there will be a few around; so that will have its own dose of funny-funny-ha-ha!
Meanwhile, the goats (nine of them) are in residence and the quail just arrived. The quail palace is being renovated to accommodate all their needs and wants. The chickens will not be joining my scraggly bunch by the solar panels but enjoying their own habitat on the other side of the property. Once the cats arrive in the indoor cat palace, we will be nearly a full house, and I shall be doing a head count of exactly how many felines now reside at our house called Solace and what that looks like for the cat food bill.
We are not entirely sure how their hounds will get along with mine, but just like their humans, there will be a certain expectancy that they can behave themselves appropriately and mix well with the others.
Before we know it, it will be time for “home for the holidays,” the feasting season, when we can all hang out together and fight for our spaces on the couch and hands on the remote. We have always been that safe place for our children to return to, the spare bed when they need one, the loan when times are tough. When it becomes time to follow our youngest and her husband up to Montana, it will be a most curious time indeed. We will be occupying rooms in their house, they will be accommodating us, and the tables will have turned full circle. Just as well, I’m already planning my escapes to the UK or Cali when the Montana winters hit hard and I’m ready to not share space for a while.
“The next several months will be interesting,” notes the husband with his usual candid understatement. “We shall ultimately see how we all manage to share a house together! Or not!” Indeed, we shall see. In the meantime, I’m rather enjoying all the activity of doors slamming, dogs barking, quails quailing and the head-counting of the cats. I shall not even mind snuggling up on my own couch over Thanksgiving with my own remote control and my own space. I’ve come to the conclusion that I am still able to reorganize my life quite well, on time and as required.
Columnist Lucy Jensen may be reached at lu*************@***il.com.
