Life as an Elevator

I lift the crying baby to my shoulder while the 3-year-old hollers, "Grammy, I need help!" Meanwhile the phone rings, and the doorbell. Grabbing the cordless, I shout, "Hello," and head for the front door. I pass the bathroom to make eye contact with the one seated there, so she knows I've heard her and will return.

Suddenly, I'm experiencing a time warp. The 25 years between life as Grammy and life as a young mom blur. I feel confused. I'm not a young mom anymore, but I am sure acting like one.

Later that night, I tell my husband about my conflicting emotions. "The difference is how exhausted I feel after taking care of the girls. I can hardly make it to bedtime."

"And these days that's only 9 o'clock," he replies.

In response, I nod off to sleep.

Next stop, young mom

On the days I watch my grandchildren, I revert to being a mother of preschoolers. I eat invisible birthday cake magically prepared by our granddaughter and even blow out the pretend candles. When she sings, "How old are you?" I announce proudly, "51."

I really don’t mind being 51. It's just that I figured by the time I reached this age, I'd be handling life with ease, simply sailing through days and various tasks, never upset, just mature and in control. Instead, when my grown children show up unannounced at dinnertime, I'm often unprepared to operate as a short-order cook. Like Mother Hubbard, I find my cupboards (and refrigerator) bare. When this happens, I feel unsettled, even annoyed. I used to handle unexpected situations with confidence. Why can't I shift easily between these roles?

Maybe I need to rethink what I'm supposed to be like as an empty nester. Somewhere I got the idea that the seasons of life were neatly defined, like summer, fall, winter and spring. Isn't life actually more fluid? Like an elevator that eases gently between floors, moving up or down as needed, an empty nester can transition between life's roles in the same way. Even in nature, those neatly defined seasons are rarely neat. There are days in March when the sun shines and everyone thinks spring has arrived. But as soon as the pansies are planted, an icy wind blows in to frost the tiny flowers. At times, spring feels like winter and summer like fall.

What floor today?

I'm discovering that this empty-nest stage is not as clear-cut as I once envisioned. My life refuses to play itself out in four distinct acts. I'm not an actress able to exit the stage wearing an apron then re-enter dressed in purple chiffon, having permanently traded one role for another. Instead, I often find myself playing different roles. And even though I've moved from leading mother to a supporting role in my children's lives, they still need me to put on my apron, cross to center stage and perform as Mommy for them or their little ones.

Since this is true, I'm sticking with the elevator metaphor to define life as an empty nester. For me, the journey is not a linear progression of time, seasons or scenes. Each year enables me to rise to a new level of maturity. Reaching floor 51 means I have that many years of experience below me when unexpected situations push my buttons. I don't have to panic when kids arrive unexpectedly; instead, I can use my experience to operate effectively at many different levels.

So, while watching my grandchildren, I apply the knowledge I gained as a young mom. Or when the kids pay an unexpected visit, I simply recall the ability to whip up a fabulous meal using three ingredients. And if the pantry really is bare, I make use of an indispensable skill I acquired when the budget eased. "Let's eat out."

For me, as an empty nester, I choose to apply the wisdom I've gained along the way, while opening up my heart to any new encounters that meet me at the elevator doors. Going up?