The house is quiet without the teenagers. This must be what those melancholy empty-nesters go on about. I’m not overly fond of that phrase. This house is not a nest. The children are not chicks.
Anyway, I bet the mammy and daddy sparrows are only delighted when their offspring fly off into the world, content that they’ve done their job and are no longer having to top up several Revolut accounts and pick hoodies up off the floor. I bet birds don’t feel a wrench about the natural order of things. Still, the house is quiet and has a different personality with the teenagers temporarily gone elsewhere, I’ll give the empty-nesters that.
They have been elsewhere for eight days now. Instead of a family holiday abroad, we saved up to send them to Irish college. On day one, we had 17 text messages from them saying “help!” and “this is torture!” and “get me out of here!”. They were only on the coach to Mayo at that stage. I wanted to respond, “actually, cailíní, I google translated and it’s ‘cabhrú!’, ‘is céasadh é seo!’ and ‘faigh amach as seo mé!’ but I didn’t think that would help. Incidentally, my Irish speaking friend insists “help” translates into Irish as “cabhairigh liom” and that google translate is wrong.
“Some of the best times of my childhood were spent at Irish college,” I reassured them. “That was in the 1700s, it’s a lot different now,” they replied not one bit reassured. “Also: cabhrú!”
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We had an American-themed musical gathering at home on the first night they left. The 4th of July. Independence Day. There was red, white and blue bunting and we tried not to think about gun control, abortion rights and all the rest. It was a last-minute thing. I had tried to keep it a secret, but somehow the teenagers found out. “I can’t believe you are having a party to celebrate us leaving,” one said. Not quite a party, I corrected. You couldn’t even call it a dinner party. The chilli and rice was served buffet style and some people had to eat from plates on their knees.
It was a Tuesday night. Some people thought it must be a mistake. “You know July 4th is a Tuesday?” one guest texted. “Yee haw,” I replied with a cowboy hat emoji. It turns out Tuesday is a good night for a last minute not-quite-a-party. You know beforehand that it’s not going to go on until insane o’clock but also it feels kind of decadent. People are more mindful about how much they drink and there was lots of Guinness Zero which actually tastes like stout and MacIvor’s non-alcoholic cider which is uncannily like the real thing.
A neighbour brought Nigella’s Guinness Chocolate Cake and a very garlic-forward potato salad. An old friend came with cartons of the fanciest gelato I’ve ever tasted which another friend, a chef, fashioned into quenelles. The quenelles, he said, elevated the shindig from a gathering to a soirée.
The music was sublime. We had a world-class composer playing Joni Mitchell (Canadian but close enough) on the piano, beautiful duets of Angel from Montgomery by John Prine (definitely American) and Hares on a Mountain, the Shirley Collins (English but fond of American folk) version.
The only American-born person at the soirée kicked off proceedings with a poignant rendition of her well-established party piece Talk to Me of Mendocino, a song by Kate and Anna McGarrigle: “I bid farewell to the state of ol’ New York. My home away from home/In the state of New York I came of age/When first I started roaming.” It was a soul-lifting moment in a soirée filled with them.
Meanwhile: “help.” The texts kept coming. At Irish College they are allowed their phones for 15 minutes in the evening, so along with the hope that they might be able to do honours Irish for the Junior Cert you are paying for a much-needed digital detox for your teenagers.
These are the independence days. The days of coming of age, the moments they first start roaming
When they asked if we’d please visit, I started to feel guilty about my Lighthouse Parenting style, where parents maintain “a watchful eye from a distance, granting their children significant independence while ensuring their safety”. Maybe the distance was too great this time. After checking in with the incredibly helpful and patient Irish college staff, we decided to take advantage of visiting day, listening to an entire podcast (Scamanda which I can highly recommend) on the eight-hour return drive from Dublin.
We had the best day in Belmullet with our chicks. A walk along the Shore Road by the magnificent tidal pool, lots of deep talk about the triumphs and challenges of being away from home for the first time, an extensive restocking of their treat box and a delicious family meal in The Talbot Hotel. Dropping them back to their house – “teach” they corrected me – we transformed from Lighthouse Parents to Helicopter Parents, saying if either of them wanted to come home with us, they could hop in the car, no questions asked. But no. Apparently there were céilí outfits to plan, windsurfing to practise and a movie night to look forward to.
These are the independence days. The days of coming of age, the moments they first start roaming. I watched them and their Bean an Tí go back inside their teach with a smile on my face and a slight wrench in my tummy, the empty-nester I didn’t know I had in me whispering softly, “help”.
Talk to me of Mendocino. Closing my eyes I hear the sea. Must I wait, must I follow? Won’t you say “come with me”?