Hidden heartache of being an Empty Nest Dad
After his elder daughter went to university, STEPHEN ARMSTRONG found himself unexpectedly bereft. With rare candour, he tackles a little discussed male taboo...
THeRe’S no good place to feel crushed, old and lonely, but a busy tesco at the edge of a concrete university campus on a wet Sunday in September is definitely one of the worst.
I was walking along the aisles with my elder daughter Rosa, shopping for her first week at university. She was excited — she loved her halls of residence and was happily planning her week’s meals.
All I could think about was her, aged ten, choosing what she wanted for dinner in our local supermarket.
then it hit me like a punch to the solar plexus: this is what empty nest syndrome means. Someone told me last year that dropping your kids off at school for the first time involves them crying, clinging to your leg and begging you not to go. When you drop them off at university, it’s the other way around. I laughed then, but, dear God, it’s true. perhaps the nest feels a little emptier because roughly eight years ago I very amicably separated from — and then, in due course, was very amicably divorced from — my now ex-wife.
We share the girls 50/50 — which is the ideal, mature and friendly way to do it.
What that means for an empty nest is that on the days my younger daughter tess isn’t with me, the house is especially desolate. And yes, having a younger daughter means the nest isn’t entirely empty — as tess pointed out.
‘ empty nest?!’ she said, her eyes burning with enough scorn to cut through sheet steel. ‘What about me?’
She’s right, of course, but she won’t be around for long. She is now choosing her A-levels. So, all being well, I’ve got two years tops, which means I’m yelling at her to tidy her room while making awkward attempts to hang out with her, aware of her imminent departure.
of course, I knew there was such a thing as empty nest Syndrome. It’s just I thought it was a female thing — something a mum who’d stayed at home to look after the children felt when the last one closed the door behind them.
I didn’t think busy, hardworking men felt a lurch in their heart and found themselves digging out old photos. I assumed the cold rational male mind would avoid mooning around the missing child’s bedroom on a gloomy Sunday.
And, above all, I never expected to be walking through a park, hear an eightyear-old yell ‘daddy, daddy!’ and start feeling broody.
the terrifying difference between male and female empty nesters? If I’m feeling broody, it’s not impossible that I’d be stupid enough to give it a try.
Very rapidly I discovered I’m not the only sad dad. ‘Let’s organise a beer,’ my mate Al texted. ‘My daughter’s left home and I’m not handling it.’
‘Beth went travelling in her year off, so I thought I’d be ready for it,’ he explained when we met in the pub.
‘Maybe thanks to that, or thanks to being in complete denial or both, it didn’t hit me immediately. I’m now well into the process of being devastated.’ He
poInted me in the direction of James Corden’s tV interview with culinary hardman Gordon Ramsay. Corden asked how Ramsay was dealing with his 18-year-old son’s departure to the University of exeter.
Ramsay was ‘gutted’ at having to say goodbye to Jack, and revealed he had recently gone into his boy’s bedroom, opened his drawers and put on a pair of pants and socks he found there. Corden ribbed him gently — ‘Were you sitting there all on your own in your kid’s underpants, glass of wine in hand, listening to All By Myself by Celine dion?’
there’s a first time for everything — and this is definitely the first time I’ve been grateful to Gordon Ramsay. But knowing the sharpness of pain is the same for a tough-guy celebrity as it is for a parent who’s given up their career to care for their children was a relief. (don’t worry, I haven’t riffled through my daughter’s wardrobe. I have sat on her bed, though, and even bought new furniture for said bedroom, yet knowing she’ll rarely use it.)
‘people generally assume men don’t feel this so much because they’re out in the world,’ says clinical psychologist dr Helen Barrett. ‘ It’s not something that’s been talked about widely and there’s no research on men and empty nest — but it’s a big life change and a big loss.
‘It’s a form of grief, but it’s not something you can mourn in public. It’s a bit like losing a pet. It genuinely hurts but people don’t expect you to talk about it.’
Also, unlike the grief I’ve felt in the past when people have died or relationships have ended, this loss is something I’ve been trying to help create.
there’s almost no other situation in life where you’re working as hard as you can to help someone break your heart. You don’t do your best to make yourself redundant from a meaningful job, and most relationships start out with your guard up, negotiating slowly towards each other to see how well you fit.
Raising kids, you’re their whole world at the start and you have to gently lever them away and out into their own world, carrying as few of your hang-ups as possible.
part of the problem is the way I’d structured my life around the children. the divorce was a little while after we moved to a new area with better state schools. Before the move and the split, I confess I wasn’t the perfect father. When I was younger, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be one.
If my ex hadn’t made things happen, I might have always been child free. now, it’s my greatest joy, but I was ambivalent at the beginning. As a journalist, I was away for work a lot, usually tired when I got back, and I struggled to be present more times than I’d care to remember.
When the split raised the faintest possibility I might lose them both and become a weekend dad, I finally realised how rubbish I’d been. It was life- changing; the moment I finally grew up.
So I bought a house and did it up and tried to respond whenever they called. When they were with me, I did the school run, went to work, rushed back to cook some atrociously poor food — somehow practice didn’t make perfect — and put them to bed.
this punishing runaround affected my post-divorce dating, my old friendships, the chance of new friendships and the work I could do — but I was fine with all of that. the most at peace I’d felt in my life was Saturday night with the girls, watching a movie and eating a Chinese takeaway. BUt
it doesn’t work when you do it alone. I’ve tried. Married couples at least have each other. Single parents don’t.
I am dating now — a mum with her own daughter at home, who lives around an hour away. the chances of cohabitation are as remote as we are, and her daughter is still at school.
All of these decisions I’ve made to get me here were the right ones — I had to man up and be a proper dad. I can’t date someone
simply out of geographical convenience, no matter how many train fares it saves, and I’m proud as any sappy parent that my girl’s doing a degree.
Indeed, I’m working to ensure it happens again. I hope Tess goes to university just as I hoped Rosa did. My parents were the first in their families to get degrees and my mum was a teacher. Education has always been crucial for my family.
But while I hoped Rosa would study for a degree, and realised as her results came through that she was definitely going away, I was still only dealing with the theory: I knew she would be going away just like I know the sun will eventually die. I’m just not ready to be there yet.
‘The truth is,’ Dr Barrett adds, ‘you haven’t lost anyone. This is about a new relationship. The problem is you’re re- evaluating everything. It’s often the case that parents question whether they have given their kids the right start in life at this late stage.
‘And, perhaps particularly as a single man, you’re wondering who am I? You’ve been the protector, but now you’re watching from a distance. You still have a role; it’s just you’re wondering what the new role is going to be like.’
This has proved unnervingly true. Since Rosa left her homes, she’s called me for help with a broken computer, some complicated words and phrases in an essay, and advice on renting a student house next year.
So I have a role. But, at the same time, she’s about to come home for the Christmas holidays and she’s already decided to spend five days of that holiday staying with her uni mates.
I mean, that’s good, right? She’s making her own life and her own mistakes. I can’t stop her — and I shouldn’t even try.
I hope Tess does the same thing (I’ll be devastated). I hope she nails her exams and gets into Manchester. I hope she loves her new friends so much they spend all summer back-packing round Europe (it’s hard to watch a grown man cry).
The only factor on my side is twentysomethings being priced out of the housing market. As prices stay ruinously high, there’s a better-than-average chance that both girls will boomerang back when their education’s over.
They may end up annoying the hell out of me for the next ten years, but just as long as we can share the odd Chinese takeaway, I’ll welcome them with embarrassingly open arms.