Flight Patterns: Tales from the Empty Nest

home insemination Kit

Updated: July 30, 2019

Originally Published: July 14, 2015

When my eldest child departed for college a few years back, it felt like a smooth transition. Since he was attending a trimester school, his send-off came a few weeks after his friends, and by the time he left, we were all prepared. Sure, I fought back tears as we drove away from his campus, but honestly, I couldn’t feel too sad knowing he’d be okay—and that we would be too.

However, after his first winter break, the reality hit my husband and me a bit harder. During the break, it felt like we had returned to our normal routine, as if all was right in the world and the grand experiment had been a success. But then, just like that, he was off again. We exchanged glances across the dinner table, feeling the weight of it all. “Every time he leaves, I realize things will never be the same,” I admitted. “Every time he leaves, I worry I might not see him again,” my husband said.

That’s the cycle of it. They leave. They come back. They leave again. Each departure is bittersweet, a mix of joy and sadness, and then there’s the stuff! The habits they bring back! The sweet moments! And then the summer—another twist in this familiar pattern. Hello, goodbye.

This summer, my son is spending time in Manhattan, a place that feels both natural and essential for him to explore. New York has always been like the sun at the center of my universe. Growing up in Connecticut, I couldn’t help but feel the city’s allure—so close yet so different from our quiet little town. I remember the thrill of driving there as a child, catching a Yankees game, or experiencing the opera at the opulent Metropolitan.

My first real encounter with the city happened during an overnight college visit. I wondered if I really wanted to be there as I gazed out a window onto a block of brick buildings. I chose to stay in Connecticut, close to home.

Things changed when my college boyfriend—now my husband—moved to New York. I spent weekends driving my beat-up car into the city, praying it wouldn’t break down in sketchy neighborhoods. We explored the city, checked out museums, and dined at diners (no Chipotle back then). I remember lying awake at night, listening to the sounds of the city—the sirens, the horns, the delivery trucks.

My husband has his own connection to New York. Originally from Baltimore, his father worked in Manhattan, and he has Dutch roots dating back to the Halve Maen. He couldn’t resist giving it a shot.

Now, our son feels that pull too. At school in New York State, he lives in a space that looks out onto the vibrant city. Having grown up watching Friends reruns—before streaming was a thing—he’s always had a bit of that New York spirit. At some point, he’ll have to decide if he wants to truly embrace it. With him packed up and driving away, it all seemed perfectly reasonable.

But that night after he left, I found myself wide awake, worrying like the flashing lights outside his window. Sending him off with a meal plan felt safe—he’d eat well. At school, there were rules, campus safety, and staff. But in Hell’s Kitchen? Not so much.

What was his apartment like? Did I even look into it? Bed bugs? Roaches? How would he stock a fridge? Did he know that eating out three times a day would either drain our bank account or jeopardize his health? And the job—did it really exist? We had no part in helping him find it.

I woke my husband, who comforted me. “We’ve done this before. It’s summer. Remember?”

Parenthood is filled with crossroads. Each time we’ve successfully navigated a milestone—he can walk, she can talk, they can read!—it’s felt like a win. With three kids and countless transitions under our belt, we should know by now that another one is always around the corner.

This summer, we’re letting Manhattan take the lead. I visited him recently and smiled when the bus driver played “New York, New York” as we entered the Lincoln Tunnel. The energy was still electric—the heat, the intensity.

My son was excited to see me, showing up for dinner and lunch the next day, eager to be cared for. Yet, he was already growing into the city, walking us through the streets and showing me his new world. It could have been the ’80s again—if not for the Starbucks cups we were holding and the fact that the young man beside me was my son, not my husband.

This journey will be worth it. If he can thrive here, he can thrive anywhere. That famous line rings true. When you’re young, the desire to succeed shapes many decisions. But as you age, you learn to redefine what “making it” truly means. And in between those stages? There’s New York. Here’s to New York, New York, New York!