Identity Theft

Can you hear it, the flapping of little wings as the youngsters leave the nest? We have a number of friends this year who will be participating in that poignant ritual. Participating in the sense of shopping for college-dorm-room sheets and reading lights and standing on the outside of “The Gate of Tears,” which is what the University of Chicago calls the final portal through which freshmen pass and parents may not.

I had kids under eighteen in the house for so long I hardly knew what to do when I didn’t. I started this blog then. Writing about my feelings helped. 

I haven’t tried my hand at advice to new empty-nesters. Throw yourself into your work. Travel. Make love in places you never could before. If you have a dog, be nice to it, as it will become your replacement child.

This too will pass, I could say, except that I’m not sure it’s true.

When your kids leave home, it’s a form of identity theft. You are no longer who you were, no longer snack-maker, homework-nagger, chauffeur and spy. The role of parent is not one you play, it is who you are. When they leave, you are still that, but you have no duties to perform. You are consigned to straightening the comforters on their beds, dusting their trophies, hoping they will call.

If someone steals your credit card or your social security number, they can steal your money. We call it identity theft, but it isn’t really that. Only your children can steal your soul.

It won’t pass—at least it hasn’t for me, even after seven year—but it will get better. The pain will dull. The longing will abate. You’ll begin to share in their lives and achievements in different ways. You’ll meet them at lake houses and invite them to join you in Paris. They may not, but even the hope of it will be exhilarating. You’ll remind them to renew their passports.

It will get better, but it will always be there, that small empty spot. Like the damage to your self-confidence when you tried out for football in eighth grade, like the BB-sized hole in your heart from your first lost love. The scar will fade so that you’ll hardly feel it except on sad, rainy days. Or on sunny days, when you’re sitting alone on a bench in a park watching a scrum of third-graders in a soccer game and your foot twitches as if to kick the ball, a reflex called up from a time when you knew with certainty who you were.