just three

The week before I left for South Africa, my younger daughter moved out of our house and into an apartment with her older sister. Both girls had been wanting to find an apartment together for months, but they had two tricky requirements: the place needed to be dog friendly, and it needed to be affordable.

It used to be that “young adult kids living with their parents” had a lazy-moocher vibe, but not so much anymore. Often it seems that young adults are living longer with their parents — not because they don’t want to move out (at least not in the case of my younger daughter), but because housing costs are so prohibitive. As much as I wanted my daughter to move out, it seemed foolish to get locked into a work-to-live spiral if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. But my younger daughter was aching to move out, and my older daughter’s wonderful little basement rental, while super cheap, didn’t allow dogs.

So the girls puttered along, looking, asking, and dreaming.

And then some folks from our church posted that they had a basement apartment coming available, and the girls jumped. 

While I was thrilled about the apartment — it’s spacious and airy, only ten minutes from our house, and reasonably prices — it was still expensive. But then I decided to look at it from another angle.

This might be the only time these girls would ever have the chance to live together. Sibling relationships are worth an investment, and living together (especially when they couldn’t stand each other for the first 18 years of their lives, ha!) is an experience in its own right, perhaps even more valuable than international travel or college courses, or any of the other countless number of things they might spend their money on.

And the worst case scenario? They’d come to realize it was more than they wanted to pay and would move out after their contract was up.

In the weeks leading up to their move-in date, the girls were abuzz. They made plans and scavenged for furniture. My younger daughter packed up her room, and my older daughter began dog searching in earnest. 

I didn’t have much time to process the transition as it was happening — I was in the middle of my own upheavals — but coming home to a household of just three made my post-travel befuddlement all the more disorienting. Every time I walked by my daughter’s echoey bedroom, I felt the emptiness. 

It’s a weird feeling, having kids move out. I definitely don’t miss when they were younger, but each time a child leaves home, it’s another thunderclap of finality. Those-clap-years-clap-are-clap-GONE. That part of my life is over, and even though it’s time for it to be over, and it’s what I want, there’s still a mourning. I’ll never get those years back.

My husband is patching the walls in my daughter’s vacated room in preparation for painting and then its transformation to guest room. My younger son wants to move into the newly vacated room, but I said no. He already has a whole room to himself, plus the clubhouse. I don’t want him feeling too comfortable here. If he wants to spread out, he’s gonna need to find a bigger nest.

Recently, on the Cup of Jo website, someone wrote, “I saw something so sweet the other day — reframing the ‘Empty Nest’ phase as the ‘Open Door’ phase, and orienting your parenting for that to be the end goal. Your home has an open door for your grown kids to come and go, through texts, calls, and in-person visits.” I love that.

Just the other evening, my daughter-in-law stopped by to pick up cheesecloth and milk, and while I dished up our supper, she stood in the doorway and entertained us with stories about her day, her classes, winter skiing, and house projects. My younger daughter stops by to drop off her dog while she’s at work, and to deliver buckets of diner slop for the pigs (and sometimes goodies for us). Tuesday this week, my older son and his friend came by for a late lunch. My older daughter calls, texts, and pops in to pick up her mail, tools for the jobsite, sourdough starter, etc —

And just as I was finishing that sentence, my daughter-in-law popped in the door to return a kettle and pick up her mail, and we ended up chattering about organ meat, butchering, and pig fat, as one does.

So are we in the Open Door phase? Why, yes. Yes, we are, and I love it.

P.S. Just a few days after switching apartments, my older daughter got a 12-week-old Border Collie named Luna who positively bubbles with wiggles and cuddles. 

This same time, years previous: name me, Lil Peach: the bus life, the coronavirus diaries: week 92, the quotidian (12.7.20), “take out the trash”, when the dress-up ballgown finally fits, welcoming the stranger, the quotidian (12.7.15), holding.