Empty Nest Envy Syndrome

Wait, wasn’t I sup­posed to be sip­ping a demi­tasse at a Paris café this morning?

I checked my sched­ule and, indeed, my chil­dren were sup­posed to be gone already. Well, one of them. The other one is never here any­way so it doesn’t mat­ter. But the 20 year old? She’s still sleep­ing in her room which, in French, is pro­nounced My Office.

But she has a job and she’s going to go to school. I think. She said she was. I’m not sure which school she’s going to. Maybe she’s going to the school of sleep-all-day-go-out-all night and wear that one dress that makes me want to drape a blan­ket over her.

I will­ingly gave up my hip years to raise kids. I could’ve been a slightly bearded words­man wait­ing tables in a bou­tique pork shop while spend­ing all night smok­ing Gitanes, drink­ing cof­fee, writ­ing 700 page oubli­ettes while never using the let­ter e.  But no, I was hip deep in dirty laun­dry, spent Pam­pers, and old pizza boxes. Instead of chill­ing out to jazz in Prague, I was learn­ing all the words to the Sponge Bob theme song.

Which is all fine, because of the unspo­ken con­tract between I and my prog­eny in which, pur­suant to page 89, para­graph 16, sub sec­tion MN, which states: “you will leapt from the premises as you turn 18 with a job in one hand and apart­ment keys in the other, forsooth.”

Hasn’t hap­pened yet.

My friend’s nest is empty as a Church on Sat­ur­day. He’s ren­o­vated his daughter’s room into a den and turned the other kid’s room into a man­cave. His empty nest is like a lair. He’s cur­rently teach­ing his dog how to open a beer.