Launched!

By TAD BARTIMUS

They're gone, launched, off to become whatever it is they want to be, taking with them all their grace, beauty, optimism, innocence. And we are left to wonder; where did the time go? What do we do now?

From the day they were born we've known they'd go away. This hole in the sky shouldn't come as such a big surprise. But somehow, in the beginning, time stretches endlessly outward. Childhood is bound up with infinity. Then the teen years get so awful we think we can't wait for them to leave. "Hurry and grow up so I can clean your room!"

Even at the start of their senior year the deadline is vague: "I'll be going to New York next fall;" "I want to go to the art institute in Kansas City;" "I plan to study something in California;" "I've enlisted in the Marines."

One day they have a midnight curfew; the next they disappear into a black hole. You don't know where they are, what they're doing, who they're with.

Last weekend brought the final positively no more absolute last farewell parties. They were more subdued than graduation bashes; less talk, less laughter. Even the music was muted. Clumps of lifelong friends, soon to part, hung out together hugging and weepy. Parents who'd carpooled for 12 years forced themselves to act cheerful and upbeat.

"Isn't it great they're going?" one said to the other, their eyes a little too bright. "Such a wonderful opportunity. And all that scholarship money. Whew! We can sure use it, too." Those whose children didn't study quite so hard smiled in spite of their thin wallets.

"It's time," all agreed. "They're ready."

The teen-agers had been worthless all summer, sleeping late and procrastinating about everything, behaving as if, by slowing themselves down, they could hang onto childhood just a little longer, irritate their parents to distraction one more time. Then came September, as it always does. The fledglings flew.

But Mom and Dad weren't ready. Cliches get that way because there's truth to them; the clichŽ about an empty nest means that when the kids leave parents have to get to know one another all over again. Novices say life will be just like it was before; experts know that's poppycock. Nothing is ever the same after kids.

How do we learn to talk to each other again? What do we have to say? Life has been centered on choir practice, soccer games, Little League, football, homework, more homework, the high drama of hormonal post-adolescent puberty. Adult conversation long ago fell casualty to sentences beginning with "Don't forget to --" and "Did you remember --." It's like when the dog died; you realize you've been communicating through Bozo for the past eight years.

What now? Estranged couples who've "stayed together for the sake of the children" suddenly find themselves without an excuse. After years of threatening to divorce, will they? Parents who've put off changing jobs, moving to another house or town or even country, are liberated from guilt about uprooting the family. If the whole world is opening up to their offspring, it is beckoning to empty nesters, too.

But the first couple of weeks are hell. One day they have a midnight curfew; the next they disappear into a black hole. You don't know where they are, what they're doing, who they're with. You just have to trust you raised them right, and tell yourself you did the best you could. Now it's up to the universe to embrace them and keep them safe until they can fly home for Christmas.

Then the phone rings.

"New York is HUGE! There are all these people! It's so LOUD! Yellow taxi cabs are EVERYWHERE! It's so COOL! I'm going to see a BROADWAY SHOW! Can you believe it? Gotta go! LOVE you! Bye!"

You are left holding a dead telephone. It is very quiet. You have nothing to do but put your feet up and relax. You remember the old Chinese proverb: be careful what you wish for.

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