Columns

Midnight Musings: Confessions and unsolicited advice

JO ANN KIRKLAND
JO ANN KIRKLAND

The sun was setting gently over the horizon on Shell Beach as the weary band of survivors huddled in their beach chairs. The moon rose as they spoke, lighting up the shadows of their faces.

Voices rang out in the stillness, startling a nearby seagull.

“There’s so much less laundry to do,” one mother said.
“And if I don’t feel like making dinner, I don’t,” another mother added.
One of the dads looked around and said, “My wife and I were together in our bedroom. In the middle of the day. With the door open.”
Welcome to the first Empty Nest party for the parents of last year’s high school graduates.
The invitation arrived the last week of August for a party on the eve of the first day of school: “Come celebrate. No backpacks to pack, no school supplies to buy, no permission slips to sign. Bring a snack.” Not knowing what to expect, we showed up with grilled shrimp on skewers.

We were casual friends with everyone, not as close as some, since our son started school here in 6th grade; most of the kids had been with each other since preschool.
It was a beautiful night at the beach: still warm, with a light breeze, a full moon. One couple arrived by boat, bringing more shrimp and beer in a cooler.
As the twilight faded into full darkness, we opened up, describing what it was like to send our kids off into the big, scary world of college. How it felt to walk away when all you wanted to do was grab your kid, throw him back in the car and head home.
We imagined advice we would give. “You be the one to walk away,” one mom said. “We left him there with his roommates. The boys looked petrified. But it was better that way because they were all in it together.”
We didn’t do that. We left our son standing at the top of a hill, leaning against a tree, as he watched us drive away.
The veteran among us, the mother of a big clan, said, “I tell my kids, ‘Just call me every Sunday night. I don’t need to know what you did the rest of the week. I just want to know that you’re alive.’”
Another mom confessed, “I text my son every night to say good night and tell him I love him.”
The dads loved that one. “Better hope his roommates don’t find out. He’ll never hear the end of it,” one laughed.
Unfazed, she continued, “But you know, most nights he texts me right back that he loves me too. It’s just like when I used to tuck him in at night.”
I could feel the smiles of recognition, the nostalgia and the wonder that it had all happened so fast. And was over.
No one wanted to leave the beach. We felt like kindred spirits — recruits from the same war. But alarm clocks would still ring early the next morning. We packed up our chairs and coolers and trudged back to our cars.
The veteran mom hugged me and whispered, “He’ll be fine.”
And he was. I knew he would be. I just needed to hear it.
A year later, our kids are home again, folding in their spread wings and looking around our little Island. Maybe bored, but already with their sights set beyond our protective moat.
Now that graduation looms, one almost-sophomore has this advice for younger friends.
“Listen to those words of encouragement at graduation. Try to keep alive that feeling of hope, of optimism, of believing that anything is possible.
“And buy an alarm clock.”