The house is quieter, tidier, and strangely… emptier. Two years have passed since the kids left, and I'm still navigating this new chapter of life. There's undoubtedly more leisure, less laundry, and thankfully, no more Nando’s on the sofa. But getting to grips with this tidy, idle new life has been full of surprises.
The Bread Bin Revelation
My husband and I recently had a revelation about our bread bin. "It's time to accept we aren't bread-bin people," he declared, staring into space. I, being from bread-bin stock, was initially horrified. But the truth is, our bread bin, acquired five years ago, has barely been used. Loaves left inside became science experiments. It turns out even I'm not a bread-bin person. Sometimes the absence of the small things can be the most telling.
The freedom is undeniable. No more weekly food shops where half the items mysteriously vanish. No more navigating the minefield of teenage mess. I'm a naturally tidy person, and the "eternal churn of family mess" is finally over. We're also a Nando’s-free household, but sometimes I find myself pining for "macho peas" and lukewarm chips. Is it the food, or the "slack, companionable comfort of those four-on-the-sofa TV dinners" that I miss?
Missing the Chaos
That's the tricky part. The quiet. The order. It’s all wonderful, but it comes with a pang of longing. My husband suggested a smaller, more elegant sofa recently, but the idea of never squashing the four of us on to ours again made me unspeakably sad. It’s cringey how much I miss them. Sometimes, I catch myself staring jealously over my husband’s shoulder at a WhatsApp from one of them; I regularly check the weather where they live; when they Deliveroo on my account, I spy on their orders.
It’s also annoying when they come home, wilfully misunderstanding the recycling system, eating at inconvenient times and using towels like oligarchs. Just as I adjust and relax, they leave again.
I don’t want a dog. It has been 18 months since my beloved dog Oscar died. Empty nesters always get dogs, but I don’t want to nurture anything more demanding than our roster of surrogate children (idiot hens, an infant tortoise and Susan, the fugitive wedding dove on our roof who arrived eight months ago, but still won’t let me touch her).
What's Next?
I thought I would work harder when they left, become a single-minded art monster. Instead, I feel fallow, like my brain used itself up producing this crop of offspring and needs a year (or five) off. It’s unnerving. I read a lot about the creative power of idleness to try to reassure myself.
It’s no surprise to remember how much I like my husband’s company, but it’s astonishing to realise we only cohabited for five years before careering into 22 years of full-on family life. Now, we are as free as we were when he arrived in London in 1997. "Dizzyingly so: we could do anything we like. Raise ostriches! Join a cult! Move to Acapulco!" But I don’t want to rip everything up. I hope that is a good sign.
Life feels quiet, spacious and strange; a long, slow exhale. What will the inhale bring? No idea.
