My sorrow and relief at (Covid) empty nest syndrome
On a back-to-school day like no other, our writer’s joy at a return to (almost) normal life was tempered by the bursting of the family’s cosy bubble
BUBBLES are never supposed to last. We are fascinated by their fragile beauty, floating away ever higher in the air, willing us to catch them before they burst. Children love to watch them, briefly, before they gleefully poke, stomp or clap them into oblivion.
I’ve been wanting to pop our particular bubble for quite some time, strained as it was with stress (parents), boredom (children) – suspended from reality. As we brought our daughters back to school and pre-school this week, thousands of other bubbles were bursting all around us as we released our children from their cocoon.
From one bubble into another, a new, fancier one that housed their little pals and a new teacher and included extras such as proper education and routine and life development.
The children couldn’t have been more excited on Tuesday. They woke at 6.30am, and the atmosphere was laden with anticipation, similar to that of Christmas morning.
It was back-to-school time and they could hardly wait. Before they got in the car, we made them do the obligatory annual ‘stand at the front door holding your schoolbag’ shot.
My emotions had been fluctuating from euphoria (a break!) to sorrow (my babies!) since I picked out their new schoolbags the previous day and desperately tried to source polo shirts in age six to seven – why do I leave everything to the last minute? I opted for a shocking pink LOL rucksack and carryall, which they proudly displayed now as they posed for the picture.
I thought they had grown over the last six months but today they looked ridiculously tiny, their huge schoolbags threatening to engulf them, even though they contained just a pencil case and a lunchbox, massive smiles on their eager little faces. I felt tears prick my eyes as I opened the car door. I’ve been mentally preparing – hoping – for this for the last six months, so why did I want to bundle them back into the house, into my arms, when the time had finally come to let them go?
My stomach remained in a knot as we drove firstly to Lana-Roses’s school. She hastily offered her cheek for a kiss before she sprinted towards the new drop-off point for her class. Gone.
Next was Layla and she was just as preoccupied by getting the hell out of the car and into playschool, without so much as a wave. Also gone.
IN those moments, neither child was one bit concerned about their teachers’ masks or Perspex visors or new entry points or any of the new rules that Covid had dictated for them. The innocence, their natural instinct to trust, to know where they were going would be safe, was enough to make me weep.
Alongside my creeping anxiety, I was struck by their resilience. We often say that children are a lot stronger and more capable than we give them credit for, and the way they confidently strode straight back into a situation of both routine and strangeness was a feat to be marvelled at. I was so proud of them – my children, all our children – in that moment.
But I still couldn’t shake a feeling of impending doom, and my knotted stomach didn’t unfurl when I got home either. The house certainly looked like the children were still there. The usual breakfast debris lay scattered across the table and floor, the sofa had been turned into a fort and Play-Doh could be spotted mashed into random places, including the bottom step of the stairs and on the face of an unsuspecting Barbie.
The thing that got me was the sound. Or the disconcerting lack of it. Even the dogs looked completely baffled at the deafening silence, broken sporadically by the occasional bird tweeting outside. Usually, they would join the cacophony of noise, barking in tandem with the girls’ squeals and squabbles and blaring YouTube.
Finally, there was peace. This was bliss, right? Time to myself, to have a coffee, to clean up before the house got messy again, to do some uninterrupted work.
So why was I feeling like my heart was breaking a little?
Ridiculous, simply ridiculous. It’s been a fraught time, I reasoned, with the rise in Covid cases and the all-pervasive feeling of nervousness surrounding the reopening of schools. That’s all it was. I decided to have a nose on social media to see how other parents were faring. I couldn’t be the only one feeling this way.
As I scrolled thought the pictures oh-so-similar to mine – the oversized uniforms covering barely decipherable humans and the ubiquitous gaudy bags, the openmouthed smiles, some missing teeth – there was something that made me pause.
A Facebook friend had posted a picture of a teenager beside a small, excited boy. Both humans were in uniform, standing at the same red front door, but that was where the similarities ended. The child had eyes alight with wonder and amazement, mouth agape with happiness and exhilaration. The teenager smiled cautiously, a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, having seen it all before.
It was only when I read the caption underneath that I realised these two humans were in the fact the same person – her son pictured in junior infants and years later in secondary school. In a time-hop of epic proportions, this tiny boy had transformed into a strapping, handsome six-footer. And he was not alone. Instagram was awash with similar split screens.
The shock of metamorphosis aside, it was the disbelief at the passing of time, of the brevity of their children’s childhoods, that chilled me. Observations such as, ‘Where did those ten years go’; ‘My little baby all grown up’, and ‘Time has gone by so fast’ were making me want to bolt in panic.
My mind began to race. If the natural order of life played out, this would happen to our family too. Ten years would pass and my daughters would no longer be little and constantly fascinated and bursting with joy (although the three-year-old is not quite doing that even now).
I would no longer be Mama, the centre of their universe. I would be their mother, seen as an obstacle to their happiness and freedom in their teenage angst. They would also wear that somewhat bored expression. Life does that to you.
I spotted my daughter’s beloved bunny at the corner of my eye. My daughter, soft as a marshmallow, who is brimming with all that is good. She brings Bunny everywhere, even in the car, but not today. The rational side of me fig
The innocence, their natural instinct to trust, was enough to make me weep
ured that was a good thing, while the emotion continued its maudlin march.
‘Bunny’s first and you’re next,’ it seemed to taunt as I halfheartedly swept some wayward Rice Krispies into a pile, feeling desperately sorry for myself. This is a taster of the real thing, when your babies abandon you as adults. In fact, isn’t going to school a preparation for their departure and every year, every inch grown, they are moving further from your side?
Christ. They were gone for a mere three hours. And for the last six months I’ve done nothing but give out about them. But now that they had officially fled our cosy little Covid nest, I was feeling bereft.
But – surprise! It was a week of two halves – for both parents and children. Despite their obvious enjoyment of the big return, their enthusiasm had subsided a little by day two. Lana-Rose even uttered the words which I thought I wouldn’t hear for at another week: ‘But I don’t want to go to school’, as she yawned
her way into the car. (Her sibling pulled a similar stunt the following day, wedging herself between the wardrobe and the wall in a refusal to get dressed.) My mini emotional meltdown had quelled to a composed state and I enjoyed the solitude of a productive morning, which flew by too quickly.
I met Lana-Rose at her new pick-up point and, while she was initially jumping for joy to see me – a reaction that makes me want to burst with love – she became a little subdued during the car journey home. I asked if she was OK and she said that a little child had been mean to her in front of the other kids – something that’s happened before. ‘Were they mean to anyone else?’ I asked, hoping the answer would be yes. ‘No, Mama, just me,’ she said dejectedly, twiddling her fingers in her booster seat. At this point Mama Bear’s claws came out. It’s an involuntary reaction that’s paired with vocabulary that has to be quickly edited before it escapes from mind to mouth. ‘Well, you tell that child that they are silly,’ I spurted in fury. ‘And say that I’ll tell their mama on them.’ Yes, I said those words. I’m not proud, but sometimes you’ve just got to be a snitch. ‘I can’t, Mama. They will get angry. I’ll just...’ – she paused – ‘... ignore them.’ That prickling of anxiety that I experienced just a day ago was surfacing again and for a minute I wished we were still in the bubble, still in our house. Lockdown seemed easier than teaching my girl – who has the biggest, softest heart – how to become a little harder around the edges. Not at five! I nodded in agreement at her decision and resolved to ask her every day about her experiences – good and bad. I realised then why young children are not overly worried about hand sanitiser and social distancing and pods. Their primary concerns are to be loved, accepted and valued, something that flows unconditionally from parents, but not always from their peers. As much as I want to wrap her in cotton wool and cocoon her indefinitely, it’s not real life. The bubble always has to burst. Children have to learn and grow and life has to move on.
IDON’T have the same concerns for my other little daughter, Layla, who looks fragile but is fierce, with an innate boldness that shouts: ‘Don’t mess with me.’ She is warier and tougher and could do with some of her elder sister’s patience and kindness. But sometimes she surprises me with tenderness. Like when she came home from preschool yesterday, crying softly.
She told me she was sad and that she missed her mama (the day before, it was Dada’s turn). She entwined her little body with mine on the couch, playing with my hair – her favourite way to unwind – and I inhaled her vanilla-and-strawberry smell, still babyish and intoxicating.
I don’t know about you lot, but I’m exhausted after the emotional rollercoaster of this week – fear, anxiety, happiness, pride, the bittersweet realisation that our reprieve from reality is over.
Celeste Ng, the author of the book Little Fires Everywhere, describes this most primal feeling, this all-consuming urge of parenthood that has floored me over the last few days.
Elena, one of the lead characters in the novel, is reflecting on her daughter growing, from a baby to a child to a teen, and how sometimes she just wanted, instead of sniffing the apple, to devour it, ‘seeds and all’.
Now, I’m not advocating child cannibalism, but this ferocity resonates with me.
It’s just love, isn’t it? And if you love someone, there’s only one thing to do. Let them go.