Empty Nest
A few days ago, the last of my three children moved out and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Or rather, I’m confused by the fact that I don’t feel the way I think I’m expected to. Perhaps I haven’t had time to process it yet but when I announced their imminent departure on social media, as is de rigeur these days, I received messages of sympathy as if I ought somehow to be suffering pangs of regret and sadness. Maybe it’s because they are only down the road or perhaps I’m just a rotten person, but I’m absolutely delighted!
First of all I’m delighted for them. Since we moved here, this two-bed flat has seen five of us squashed in, sometimes only three, but for the last seven months or so, four grown adults have been living here. And because I had repurposed what had been the kids’ shared bedroom for my photography studio, one had a ‘nook’ created with a jury-rigged curtain and the other had to make do with sleeping on the sofa. It has been far from ideal, for any of us.
My youngest in particular has had a pretty rough ride of it lately, being functionally homeless for the last 18 months. For six or seven of those she has been kipping on the couch. But all good things come to an end and a set of much happier circumstances means that she is now happily ensconced in a lovely flat with what might be an even better sea view than mine, with her brother. Ah yes, the compromise. It seems nobody was interested in renting to a 19-year-old no matter how many hours she was working but fling in a 25 year old male and all of a sudden things were looking up. I’m trying not to be angry about it. I understand that landlords want a sure thing renting from them to protect their income stream but I’ve not met many people who work harder or are more determined than my youngest. The fact she came through this last period with only one or two big wobbles is testament to her strength of character. But it works well for him too. He is on the autistic spectrum and the last time he lived away from us even he acknowledges that he floundered. This half-way house, living away from us, but close by, with someone so familiar could be a way of easing himself into fully independent, successful living. Isn’t that what we want for all our children?
Besides, the sofa wasn’t going to take much more punishment and I had been fantasising about what I’d do with a vacated ‘nook’ at the end of my studio space. It’s fair to say this latter was the subject of a bit of a brief turf war. My other half saw himself ensconced there, a desk and his computer set up in such a way that he could watch streaming sport from different continents without having to sit with headphones on to block out the sound of me enjoying Criminal Minds at volume. I wanted to shift my desk and computer from the studio end of the room to give more floor space to work in. I clinched things by pointing out that the point of an empty nest was that we could enjoy it together, not retreat to separate rooms of an evening!
I’ve spent the last five days trying to decide how to use the newly acquired space. The shape and size of the room means it might not be so great for my desk afterall but I started to think of it as storage for photographic props, light modifiers, that box of darkroom equipment, hey, hang on…a darkroom! Oh yes. Now we’re talking! I’ve not set foot in a darkroom since graduating from Glasgow School of Art. There was simply nowhere to put one here with five of us trying to navigate the space, and I couldn’t afford to travel to Glasgow to use facilities there. I will always be grateful for the help that Working Tax Credits gave us but whenever I hear people denigrating folk for being ‘on benefits’ I remember the stultifying existence it afforded us with nothing spare to save for a rainy day, nothing left after bills and paying for breakdowns of essential equipment to allow for any kind of cultural experiences, nothing left for escape. Now I remembered that wonderful feeling of being shut up in a small room, swathed in the blackout, rhythmically moving trays of developer, stop and fix, the magic of an image wisping into dim red view, the vaguely vinegary smells, the tiny grinding whirr of a timer working its way backwards, the counting, the care, the drips. It always reminds me of those childhood days reading by torchlight in the cupboard under the stairs, or regularly volunteering to sort the stationery cupboard at primary school rather than run the gamut of a bitter playground. I like small, dark places. They feel safe and comforting, like a hug but without having to touch anyone. They feel precious and they feel mine. There’s a bubble of excitement starting in my tummy, gathering strength and rising. It’s not that I won’t miss my children, but I don’t think I’m getting an ‘empty nest’. I think I’m finally getting a nest of my own, and there’s a world of difference between the two.