An Empty Pitcher Amid The Fullness

You’re thirsty.

We’re talking a furnace in your lungs, the Mojave desert on your tongue. Water shimmers in your imagination and you fantasize about the first cold, clear gulp splashing the dust at the back of your throat.

Open the fridge and there’s the pitcher. You’d swear it’s surrounded by a halo.

Then you lift it. And it is so empty. Turn it over and two molecules of water slink out, evaporating before they hit the sink.

Which is when you remember - silly person - you have kids. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened. Not even the first time this week.

I keep hearing people talk about the empty nest syndrome, complaining about how barren life is once the kids are gone. I find myself wanting to comfort those folks - with a two-by-four.

Empty nest syndrome? Give me one of those. Empty nest, full pitcher. Sounds like a fair trade to me.

Frankly, I don’t even believe the syndrome exists. I think it’s just one of those honeyed lies we tell ourselves - like the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end.

Empty nest syndrome? We kicked the oldest kid out into the world last year. The world kicked him right back in.

We’re in the process of kicking the second kid out now. I’m going to hire a hockey goalie to guard the door.

Bad enough the old ones won’t go. Now new ones are barging in. I speak of the grandkid who appeared five months ago. Fat, toothless and drooling, he grins and kicks happily when grandpa goes by, but grandpa is not fooled. Grandpa knows that soon enough, he too will turn into a full-fledged kid.

He will put empty pitchers back in the fridge.

He will leave half-eaten cheese sandwiches on top of the TV.

He will walk past the garbage can and not see it even if it sprouts legs, steps into his path and says, “I’m full, kid. Take me out.”

We used to have a plan, Marilyn and I. Raise our kids early and use the back end of life to play. No school plays and Little League commitments for us. The 50s would be the fun years.

Well, the 50s aren’t even in sight yet, but already the plan seems doomed.

Of course, the empty nesters would say I’m really having the time of my life and just don’t know it yet. Truth to tell, sometimes I think they’re right. Sometimes I catch myself in the moment and it is evanescent and sweet, a soap bubble under a summer sun and I wish I could linger.

Like when Marlon, who is 13, turned to me and said of his brother Bryan, who is 11, “We get along a lot better now that he’s discovered girls.”

Like when Onjel, who is 5, stood next to my desk, hands on hips, bending to the side and singing, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout …”

Like when baby Eric turned over for the first time, then looked up with a grin of surprise as if to say, “How’d that happen?”

The other day, Onjel asked her oldest brother to teach her to ride her bike without training wheels. I watched them in the cul-de-sac next to the house, fear, exhilaration and pride rushing across her face as her brother ran alongside and then let go, and she went sailing solo down the street. I watched her take the inevitable tumble and give the bike a few swift kicks to remind it to behave. And then I watched her get right back on. “You’ve already learned the secret of life,” I told her. “Every time you fall, get back on.”

She beamed at me and I was happy and proud. I could have lived in that moment forever.

Later, Eric burped up some gritty baby gruel that slid down my sleeve and I came back to my senses in a hurry.

Oh yeah, I’m having the time of my life here. I just don’t know it yet.

xxxx