A happy holiday chaos has descended on Gunnels Manor.
How else to put this? My wife and kids are slobs,
God love ’em. Carelessly abandoned shoes litter every room in the house.
Discarded winter coats hang from every chair and railing. Half-empty drink
glasses sit forlornly on coffee table, side table and console.
And my kids’ rooms? Dear Lord, preserve us! My son
sits in unspeakable squalor playing video games and watching Netflix. My
daughter, home from college, has clothes, toiletries and God-only-knows strewn
everywhere. The aftermath of a tsunami would look more orderly.
But I don’t care. Because I know, with a heaviness
of heart that surprises me, that soon enough, the kids will be gone, along with
the clutter. We’re coming to an end of things in the Gunnels household.
My daughter graduates from college next May. Then
she will hit the job market and look for a teaching position. I hope it will be
close enough for regular visits, but who knows about such things.
Next fall, my son will leave for college, and I’ll
be surprised if we see much of him thereafter. Short visits to drop off laundry
and mooch a home-cooked meal, perhaps. But he yearns to be free of his parents’
cloying grasp. So did I at his age, so who am I to complain now?
Transition time is upon us. It’s nothing new and
nothing that countless parents haven’t faced – and survived – before. There’s
nothing special about our situation, certainly, but that doesn’t help much. I
still get a knot in my stomach thinking about it. And certain random things
trigger an onset of almost-panic.
It happened last night when I got up to get a drink
of water, and decided to take a peek at my sleeping children, something I've
done all their lives. It started when my daughter was a baby and I lived in
fear that she would die in her sleep, an irrational worry sparked no doubt by reading too
many articles about SIDS. Sometimes, when she appeared to be too still, I would
pinch her awake just to reassure myself.
Over the years, particularly when they were old
enough to stay out late, I would look in on them after they fell asleep,
grateful for the peace it gave me to see them safe and sound in their own beds.
So last night, I quietly checked first on Rachel,
who lay on her side, her long hair a tangled mess on the pillow and her angelic
face hidden by bedcovers. Our West Highland terrier, Kiera, raised her head
from her spot on Rachel’s bed, saw me in the doorway and lay down again with a
contented sigh. No intruders to chase on this night.
I turned and tiptoed to Ethan’s room. He had gone to
a late movie with friends and didn’t get in before I went to bed. Standing in the
entrance to his slovenly den, I looked at him wrapped in a blanket, one bare
leg hanging over the side of the bed, the very image of youthful sloth.
Then I returned to bed and lay there, eyes open, filled
with the nagging apprehension of a time when it will not be so easy to determine
their welfare and to shield them from harm.
When my children are gone – from here into the wild, uncontrolled fury of the world – how will I cope? Like all empty nesters, I suppose. But I will yearn for the days when a quick survey of my children in their beds could bring blissful, untroubled sleep.
And I dread the day when I will walk past their clean,
uncluttered rooms – neat as a pin and just as featureless – and remember when
chaos reigned, when my only true gifts to the world lived carefree and unruly
under my roof.
