Please Don’t Call It An Empty Nest. We Still Live Here.

In the days before dropping our youngest child off at college, I was not keeping it together at all.  

I was definitely at peak unraveling Friday morning, as I was walking the dogs past Jacob G. Smith elementary school and saw a dad standing with his son on the corner as the carpool line crept by. I could see the boy’s little legs set into the concrete, his face pressed into his dad’s cargo shorts, clearly not wanting to walk the last half block by himself. 

The scene immediately choked me up with heartache as I remembered how it felt to detach my own kindergarteners’ chubby arms from my skirt, and what a relief it was to finally have a few goddamn free hours while someone else fed them snacks and answered their seven bajillion questions. 

I shook my head hard and kept moving, but because the dogs have a favorite peepee patch every few yards, I was still lingering as the dad came striding back up the street, sipping from his travel mug.

“Did he get off all right?” I asked amiably, trying to suppress the catch in my voice.

“Oh, he was just fine when he got to the door and saw his teacher…whoa, no, really, he’s OK!” The dad had seen my now overflowing face, and I had to blubberingly explain that I was just feeling sorry for myself because no one was ever again going to clutch at my knees or ask if cats lay eggs. The man was very kind but who wants some crazy sad lady snotting all over them first thing in the morning while holding a bag of dog poop? 

This waterworks display was even worse than the day before, when the lovely Brianne Walsh Zipperer and her cute Cleo caught me leaking tears all over the sidewalk. Brie is a thoughtful and funny writer who often chronicles motherhood’s complex feelings so I knew she could relate, though I’m probably going to end up with a reputation for bumming out the entire neighborhood before 9am. 

The truth is I cried this week while in the self-checkout line at Red and White, in front of the Amazon delivery guy, and watching sorority rush videos on TikTok. This didn’t happen when our oldest went off to UGA four years ago—the feeling was much more like that first kindergarten taste of freedom, probably helped along by the opening of Lone Wolf Lounge within walking distance—but I guess sending off the last one means the parenting ride is really over. 

At least we get four more years of visiting Athens with our second lil’ Bulldog, though this last trip wasn’t exactly an ideal travelogue. I managed to keep the tears in check as we headed west Saturday morning, her Honda packed to the roof with suitcases and Grateful Dead posters she’d pilfered from her dad’s childhood bedroom. We’d planned to stop in Sandersville for lunch at the Dairylane, though at the last minute we remembered we are all lactose intolerant and headed for Waffle House instead. 

In the parking lot I almost stepped on a huge yellow moth that had made the poor decision to blend in with the yellow curb, and as I scooped it up I tried not to think of all the questionable choices we’d swooped in to fix, like discovering her spare tire was actually for a horse trailer or the time we paid for the salon after she fried her hair a shade of Flaming Cheeto orange during COVID. After we all oohed over the moth’s gorgeous girth and markings, we held our breath as it flew off over six lanes of traffic into the woods.  

First reader to identify this moth gets a Savannah Sideways tote bag

Really though, I should have been more worried about my own capacity to be out in the world. We showed up at the dorm exactly at the allotted time to meet her lovely roommate, Madeline, for the first time in real life (they’d been Snapchatting for months) and her parents from Chattanooga. Naturally, I cried while introducing myself. 

Then, when they all left for lunch to give our girl some space to unpack, I managed to swing around my fat fanny pack and knock over one of her roommate’s plants, spurring a hysterical trip across town to Lowe’s to find a replacement terra cotta pot and some super glue to fix the ceramic “It Ain't Easy Being Green” sign that had been stuck in the soil.  

By the time we got back, Liberty had unpacked and decorated all by herself, showing that she was far more ready for this than we were. She didn’t even flinch at my pathetic attempt to glue the sign back together, brandishing instead a new stained glass plant ornament that she’d bought for Madeline over the summer at the Tybee Farmers Market. Barely out the door, and our full-grown moth had spread her wings and was already way ahead of us.

Turns out she didn’t need us at all. Be sure to Zoom in bottom right to see my poor gluing skills

After a farewell dinner over the famous golden tofu at The Grit, Mark and I resisted the temptation to drown in our cups with our friends at The World Famous, opting instead to sedate anti-socially by taking in a flick around the corner at Ciné, a non-profit old school movie theater that sells Junior Mints, popcorn in compostable brown bags, and alcohol. The film was ridiculous violent trash—Bullet Train starring a seemingly exhausted and embarrassed Brad Pitt—but sitting in the dark watching a lot of loud CGI crashes, shootings, and stabbings is an excellent way to cover any sobbing.

The next morning we said our real good-byes, standing near the UGA arch that her older brother had walked through a few months ago (it’s a Dawg thing, OK?) She held our hands as we strolled down West Broad Street, but it was us who didn’t want to let go this time, our faces pressed into her shirt. She gently extracted herself and kissed our cheeks, and there was nothing left to do but watch as she walked the last half block by herself, her head held high. 

Mark says he hates the term “empty nest” because it’s a cliché, though I just peeked into Liberty’s bedroom and it definitely resembles the abandoned hovel of some type of animal. I guess I don’t like it because it implies our home has no life left in it—I mean, there’s still these dumb dogs who are never going to college, and even though my man and I are older and sadder, we’re still very much here. 

And we’re feeling deeply lucky that we live somewhere worth coming back to, full of people we love. 

That afternoon we rolled back into Savannah and headed straight to Starland Yard, where Soap—the best local band in the world, in case you weren’t aware—rocked the sunset with soul and grace. It might be getting harder to hang onto in this city, but there's still a community here that cares about each other, people of all ages and colors and birthplaces who offer true hospitality but don’t suffer clichés.

We felt our lives stretch out in front of us as the coolest crowd gathered us up in their arms, knowing they’ll let us cry on their shoulders as long as we need. 

It’s OK to not be OK ~ JLL 

IDK, if you walk under The Arch before graduation your head falls off or something