Pretty much everything about life changes when that last kid walks out the door. We think we should make the most of these adjustments, these changes. Most were easily anticipated but as always, some things are unforeseen.

Over the past year, we have had to relearn how to shop and cook for just the two of us. That fell into the unexpected for me. I don’t know why, but it was not something that I thought of before the clearing out of the nest.

Throughout our nearly three decades of marriage I have been the primary cook in the house. The kids call me at least once a week to ask things like “How long do you cook a chicken?” or “What’s in that stroganoff you make?” or “ What was that stuff you made that one time that was so good?” About two hours, cream of mushroom soup, and carbonara.

I like to eat, so early in life I figured out how to cook the things that I wanted to consume. A natural offshoot of cooking is shopping, so I learned to do that too. I’m such a hunter-gatherer. With three kids, I had to be!

Usually a trip to the grocery store involved multiple shopping carts and severe wallet damage. By the time the three bottomless pits were teenagers it required a small truck and a second mortgage. Should the spawn choose to come along, only perfect weather, no traffic, fast driving, and sheer luck could get half of the provisions home before ingestion. One red light and there would be nothing left but empty wrappers, paper products, and canned goods… but that’s only because they didn’t like to eat paper and I had learned to check them for can openers before we left. On one of these homeward sprints I’m pretty sure they were trying to start a fire in the back of the van. Luckily I pulled into the driveway right as I started to smell smoke and they were tearing open the meat. After that, I learned to check for matches, lighters, flint, sticks, charcoal, grills, skewers, and long handled forks… even if we were just going to the Kwik Sack for gas.

So there’s been a bit of an adjustment from shopping for a ravenous pack of teenaged wolves to supplying two middle aged wandering gypsies. Even more so when the eating habits of said gypsies are completely different.

I like meat. Almost any meat. If it squeals, moos, gobbles, baaas, swims, pinches, or clucks, I’m all over it. Skin it, pluck it, or scale it, and lob it on the fire. Veronica calls herself “a meat avoider,” not a vegetarian, an avoider. As near as I can tell, that means “Let me try a bite of that pork chop, it looks way better than this salad.” She claims that it’s my fault that I never get a carnivorous dish to myself because I make things look so good while I’m eating them. I can’t help it, I like food.

But back to the point: it’s hard to find foods sized for just one or two people. We are now punished for not buying the “family pack” of half a cow. I used to celebrate finding 27 lbs. of Grade A beef on sale for pennies a pound. Now I get to buy the one strip steak for tonight’s dinner at $27 a pound, what a deal!

Yes, I could break up the giant bargain packs and freeze the portions but how long will it take me to go through a side of beef all by myself (and of course Veronica’s bites as she avoids the stuff)? The answer is…. longer than it takes frozen meat to turn into that strange crystallized cardboard space-food product it becomes in your freezer. The bargains may not be available, but these days the final bill is certainly less of a shock. Dozens of dollars instead of hundreds. I’ll take that and like it.

Still, my transition from vats of spaghetti, cauldrons of soup, and Fred Flintstone slabs of meat to dinner for two is far from complete. I know there are only two of us and I know that Veronica hardly eats any of the same things that I do (sneak attacks from her fork notwithstanding) but sometimes I can’t help myself. I must have burritos. Then I have to buy the whole can of green chiles, tortillas come by the dozen, there is only one size of can of refried beans, and nobody sells less than a pound of meat, or cheese for one, or half heads of lettuce… so… I either eat burritos for three days straight or we get a really cool science project going in the back of the fridge.

I’ve found though that there are some things can help. First, cook different foods. No more big pots and whole chickens, now it’s grilled or broiled meat and a smaller side dish. No more striving to fill bottomless bellies with massive amounts of starches. I bake a couple of potatoes instead of mashing several dozen. I cook a small pan of rice, not a washtub-full, a small bowl of pasta with tuna instead of literally pounds of the stuff with gallons of red sauce. Pasta and rice are great because I can cook just the amount needed for today and the rest keeps almost indefinitely. Tuna is one of the few things that actually comes in a can the right size for one or two people. Not so much with the crushed tomatos.

It also helps to plan ahead a bit. I try to think about a second meal when I’m shopping. A small roast makes great sandwiches the following day. Fish goes into a salad. That extra steak or pork chop is mighty good with eggs the next morning. Most anything can be tossed into a can of soup to dress it up or mixed together with other leftovers to form a new meal. To me cooking is all about experimenting anyway.

Oh, and by the way, there are a lot of fates worse than eating burritos for three days straight… no doubt I’ll do it again soon.

Visit GypsyNester.com.

Now the rest of the day loomed menacingly. This GypsyNesting Mama needed a diversion. It had to be a well established diversion, something so spectacular that any sort of baby-missing hysterics would be averted.

A brunch at a really, really nice restaurant? The thought of just the two of us surrounded by long tables of celebrating families was just begging for a Chernobyl sized meltdown. The very idea of food reminded me of those wonderful Mothers Day mornings with the pitter-pattering of footy pajamas, dry scrambled eggs with shell fragments, and burnt toast served to me in bed. Planning in advance might have been the sensible thing to do, but hey, the plan is no plans.

After discussing a few scenarios, David and I decided that anything even remotely traditional would not do. So what TO do?

Eureka! We hit the road and headed for the World’s Largest Ball of Paint.

Deep in the heart of Hoosierland lives a man with a vocation spanning 45 years. It all started with a happy mishap in 1964 — Mike Carmichael and a buddy were tossing a baseball and it ended up in can of paint.

Then Carmichael’s inspiration: “What would this look like if I continued to coat the baseball, then cut the whole thing in half?” Encouragement was given by neighbors and kinfolk. Then they dissuaded him from splitting the coated sphere. The years passed and Mr. Carmichael was left with a massive orb hanging from a chain in a room of his house. Did his wife mind? Not a bit. Glenda has added more than 8,000 layers herself.

After years of keeping his masterwork strictly among family and friends, the time had come to reveal it to the world. He decided to build a pavilion to showcase the ever-growing globe and the accolades soon followed. Relocating the three thousand pound work of art meant knocking out a wall of their home and utilizing a forklift for the jaunt to a more fitting domicile worthy of a masterpiece of this magnitude. Which proved the theory, “If you build it, they will come.”

People have come from at least twenty-five countries to add another coat of paint and receive a certificate to commemorate the event. One layer even included a marriage proposal (she said yes!). The ball is featured in the Guinness Book of World Records and Ripley’s Believe It or Not as well as appearing on several television networks.

The Carmichaels have met gobs of celebrities who have made the pilgrimage to add yet another layer of pigment. Once David Letterman made arrangements for Mike to bring the ball to his late night show, but Mike declined, feeling that the orb must be seen in its proper home. Besides, you never know what might happen to a ton and a half of dried paint turned loose in the big city.

We knew that the 20,000th layer had been recently added and were eager to find out which layer would be ours. This would be a Mothers Day to remember!

The Ball of Paint is viewable by appointment only. We were pleased that Mike would see us on a Sunday (and Mothers Day to boot) with only a few hours notice. What a guy, he must have felt the pain brewing deep within my heart.

Entering the pavilion, we were struck by the enormity of the situation. The ball is suspended from an iron girder, and is so large that a large mirror is set on the ground below so you can see underneath as you roll on the paint.

After viewing every angle, discussing every aspect, and a quick tour of the pavilion, Mike finally asked us the question David and I were aching to hear: “What color are you going to use?” With a scan of the dozen or so vats of paint, we grabbed our rollers and lovingly added layer number 21,823 which included a Mothers Day stick figure homage to our children.

After completing the task, and adding to the world record, we contently began to walk away with our souvenir paint chip, a certificate for Coat # 21823, and the commemorative tee shirt. Just out the door, I asked Mike one more question. “What’s your regular job?”

“I’m a painter.”

Perfect.

Read more from Veronica and David James at their blog, GypsyNester.com

On the same day that we officially became empty nesters, the very day our youngest started college, we got on a plane headed for Switzerland. We didn’t really plan for the two events to happen on the same day, it just worked out that way.

What was planned was to spend time together and to do the things that obligations had pushed aside before. The three years between our older girls leaving the house and the boy flapping his wings gave us plenty of time to decide how we wanted to spend, or at least start, this new phase of our lives.

We spent the time, before our nest completely emptied, planning to have no plans. That may sound strange and contradictory, but we really have planned to have no plans. Child rearing is nothing BUT plans. Long range plans like providing a good home, saving for college, raising a solid adult, etc. and massive short term, everyday planning of ballet lessons, dentist appointments, baseball games… anyone who has kids gets the picture all too well. So we set out ahead of time to have no set long term plans and let the short term, daily variety be fluid and adaptable to each new day.

Sounds simple, but in reality it takes some planning to have no plans. We knew that we would need some income. After all, we still have one left in college and we’ve grown fond of food and shelter, so we took steps in that direction.

After squirreling away nuts in various holes for years, the time had come to dig up a few. We decided to sell our condo and buy some rental property for income as well as providing a place for our youngest to live while in school. It turns out that this is a fairly common method of providing housing for students and it seems to work out well as long as they don’t go all Animal House on it. The no plans part popped up when the properties that we could get good deals on needed work. No problem, we simply became handymen for a couple of months and got to know a college town…. no plans and some new experiences to share.

We also thought we ‘d like to see the world from the deck of a catamaran but new opportunities in Europe came up. So now we are seeing the world from planes, trains and automobiles. That’s OK… no plans and new places to see. At some point in the future, when we really aren’t expecting it, the boat idea might fall back into our laps. That’s the way life is. Certainly things come up, but now we take them as they come instead of worrying ahead of time. Then we simply adjust our lack of plans.

We are still in the early stages of this lifestyle adjustment but it’s working because my wife and I are on the same page. We spend almost all of our time together, something that may not be right for everyone, but it works for us. In the eloquent words of Kurt Vonnegut, we are a nation of two.

This isn’t something that we started just as our kids were leaving. We have been laying the groundwork for over 26 years. Back when we had barely evolved into human beings ourselves, Veronica squeezed out a few yard apes (how did that happen?) and we had to become responsible adults. While raising the kids, we always tried to remember that a huge part of being good parents is being a good couple. When the time came to get back to just the two of us, it wasn’t hard to remember what brought us together in the first place. Part of the beauty of our new no plans plan is that now we get to be the kids for a change.

In addition, we have found that it is very important for us to keep learning. Try new things together. Try things that neither of us has any previous experience with. That way, we’re in the same boat. Explore. Examine. Investigate. Inquire. Enjoy. No plan. That’s the plan.

When’s the last time in your life that a single song evoked an entire era? There may be no singer who does that for boomers better than Bob Dylan. Veronica and David James

I tried the “living legend” idea but since she had seen him before … so, as we talked, I stumbled on what I think is the real reason for anyone to be interested in seeing Dylan, even if they don’t particularly care for his music. There are few people in the history of the arts who ever make significant changes in the way their medium is executed. Bob Dylan is one of those few. He fundamentally changed the way songs are written, not musically but lyrically. There is a noticeable difference between songs before and after his influence.

Before Dylan, lyrics told stories in a clear, straightforward manner. The use of imagery was mostly confined to the music itself, with melody and chord structure. He changed that. Now the lyrics are used as a vehicle to “paint a picture” as much as for the feel and form of the music. Bob Dylan had a huge hand in making that happen. When I made this point, it had some impact on Veronica and now she was actually looking forward to the show (I wisely decided not to remind her that she wouldn’t be able to decipher a word the man sings— lest I lose the whole argument about lyrics).

We arrived just before show time without tickets, but by complete dumb luck got seats in the third row that were somehow overlooked in the advance sales. What can I say? We lead a charmed life. The first thing I noticed on entering the arena was the crowd. It’s been a long, long time since I have been to a big stadium rock concert but I still remember what it was like… and this wasn’t it. I actually felt like one of the younger ones there.

This was probably a good thing. No mosh pits, groupies, biker security, or clouds of pot smoke to obscure the reason we came. There was a large contingency of younger kids from the local college willing to stand though the entire show in exchange for the cheaper ticket prices. Perhaps that’s where secret herbal fires were burning. It did seem like a small whiff drifted by us now and then.

As for the show itself, it was pretty much what I expected, except that Dylan has reinvented himself as a keyboard player. He only touched a guitar on a couple songs and used the harmonica mainly to add a little color here and there. The crowd went wild every time he touched the harp though, so it worked.

Dylan’s been known to do entire shows of songs that only a hardcore fan would recognize, so we were happy to be graced with some classics like “Highway 61 Revisited,” “Like A Rolling Stone,” “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue,” “Maggie’s Farm,” and “All Along The Watchtower.” All ARE nostalgic, bring-you-back-to-a-certain-place-and-time classics. For Veronica, an especially fond memory occurred during “Rainy Day Woman #12 and #35″ (Huh? Oh yeah, “Everybody Must Get Stoned”), remembering her mother’s shock long ago that her father was listening to “that song” in front of the children. Daddy had easily explained it off as a song about Jesus, which is funny because it’s (kinda) true. A fine little childhood memory that made Veronica smile.

It can be a bit off-putting how Dylan never acknowledges his audience, almost like you’re only watching a rehearsal. You can see that as good or bad; personally I find something to like in it. The lighting is sparse— you never really get a good look at him, the stage very pared down. It’s almost as if the crowd is an afterthought. I can see how, after several decades of performing these songs, he might purposely phrase his lyrics so that it doesn’t turn into a singalong. It also occurred to me that the college kids (and some of the old hippies) should stop shouting out requests for favorite songs, because it might make him all the LESS likely to play them.

Dylan wasn’t vibrant, yet he didn’t seem like an “old guy” either. As Veronica said at the end, he “oozed cool.” He is after all, as his introduction stated, “the poet laureate of rock ‘n roll. The voice of the promise of the 60s counterculture. The guy who forced folk into bed with rock, who donned makeup in the 70s, and disappeared into a haze of substance abuse and emerged to find Jesus.”

And the band kicked ass.

David and Veronica’s blog is GypsyNester.com

We were looking to make an extended trip to visit our fast-walking, subway-chasing, black-wearing, taxi-flagging urbanite daughters. Bunking with them in their microscopic Manhattan flats or paying $500 a night for a “cheap” hotel were out of the question. The hotel costs alone would be enough for the down payment on another house.

So we logged on, posted pics of our house and set New York City as one of our preferred destinations. We were floored by the flood of emails from Manhattanites who wanted to escape summer in the city. We’re talking hundreds of takers. With a few more searches, we discovered that if we changed our mind about New York, the possibilities were nearly endless: we could take ski trips, spend April in Paris, run with the bulls (wherever they run with bulls), and pretty much go anywhere from Walla Walla to Guatemala.

In no time came an offer from a designer in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn with a quintessential Brooklyn brownstone. Fiona and her family were old hands at the exchange game and they suggested a three week swap. She promised to leave take-out menus, a Zagat restaurant guide, and a subway map. We promised snorkeling gear, beach towels, and directions to the crab races. After a few emails and a phone call or two, we were on our way.

Upon arrival, we found two bottles of lovely wine as a welcoming gift, a list of the house’s “quirks,” and a note on the individual specialties of the local markets. We immediately took the Zagat to the stoop with a bottle of wine and mapped out our urban culinary escapades. We soon realized that Fiona’s kitchen would not get much use — there was Ethiopian, Indian, Halal, and New York’s first pizza place (Lombardi’s. Go there!) to be consumed. And consume we did.

Here are some things were learned along the way:

• Talk to each other prior to the exchange. This is REALLY important. It’s very comforting to be able to ask questions over the phone, especially for newbies.

• Create a “house file.” Ours had issues like “don’t use the hairdryer upstairs and the espresso machine in the kitchen at the same time, but just in case, the fuse box is by the fridge” and “stick your finger in the hole of the TV to turn it on.”

• Make sure your rules are clear. Fiona’s family didn’t wear street shoes in the house and forbade smoking. We put a ban on using Grandma’s china.

• Remember that each exchange will pose special issues. Fiona recalled “a very amusing period in a French home trying to get into the washing machine.” A highly educated woman, she found the knobs and levers of the Gallic system of laundering indecipherable. Leave clear instructions — especially for those who come from faraway places.

• Think about the first day. Make sure your exchangers know where the closest grocery store is (with directions and store hours). They are going to show up tired and hungry so be sure to let them know how to find the nearest late-night diner too. If your area has unique customs, fill them in.

• Give them an option of a housekeeper. We took advantage of this — less stress and more time at the Statue of Liberty, eateries, and cheesy tourist diversions.

• Exchange cell numbers. Try not to use it, nice if you need it.

• Replace anything you use or break. Most of the online exchange sites have a rating system — you don’t want a bad rating; you will be blackballed in the future. Plus, it’s mannerly — Remember, they’re in YOUR house too!

• Leave a thank you note. Be sure to let them know about the great time you had and problems, if any, that arose. It is helpful for future exchanges.

Overall, our experience was fantastic and our research shows that most all exchanges go off without a hitch. So don’t be afraid to take wing and swap that empty nest.

~~~~~~

Visit The Gypsy Nester online.

Sassari can seem so foreign to modern, New World eyes, yet we soon discovered that behind the ancient veneer were 21st century conveniences. In our hotel, we found motion sensor lighting, video security, wireless access, and a staff that spoke an amazing repertoire of languages, seamlessly moving from guest to guest. Just a passing glance (or in Veronica’s case an intentional snoop) into the open doors of the homes revealed all the newest gadgets. State of the art kitchens with gleaming, compact appliances, LCD screens on widescreen TVs, and computers and furniture to die for.

Over the first night’s dinner, conversation turned to local food and customs. Gianluca mentioned that horse and donkey were the “national foods” of Sardinia and that people who are not from the island can find them hard to eat. It wasn’t meant as a challenge, but to us, the gauntlet had been dropped. Since David had tried horse on a previous visit to Italy, it was obvious that we must, instead, eat the ass!

The next day, our culinary adventure staring us in the face, we noticed an intriguing little local haunt called Trattoria da Peppina in a tiny piazza near our hotel. Turns out “assenello” (little donkey) was one of the least adventurous menu items. Spinal cord, small heads of lamb, three kinds of snails, various entrails, and goat feet were the big adventures, as well as several things we couldn’t decipher even with our fairly complete dictionary. This was it — we’d found our place. The obvious jokes preceded our meal: “That’s some nice ass,” “There’s just nothing like a good piece of ass,” “How’d you like to bite my … “ Well, you get the idea.

We were hoping a nice sauce might cover our ass, but as we were enjoying our pasta “first plate” we heard the distinct sound of meat on the grill. Sure enough, the ass was served straight up, all alone on a plate, grilled to perfection. They even went so far, perhaps by accident, (perhaps not), to serve it in a shape that could be seen as a toilet seat or a human butt.

Lemon and salt were added as we summoned up our courage. The steak was cut, rather tentatively, and the first bite sniffed and inspected. Smelled good, looked OK. Here we go. It’s good! No, really, it’s good. Fully expecting to only try a bite or two, we ate every bit. It’s really good. So now, best of all, at dinner we could truthfully say, “No thank you, I had ass for lunch.”

After lunch, it was time for more exploring. Sassari sleeps during this part of the day, so it felt as though we had the whole place to ourselves, but we did find the Museo Nazionale Sanna open. This museum has very convenient hours and houses some of the earliest Stone Age and Neolithic finds on the island. Phoenician and Carthaginian objects like pottery and gold jewelry, Roman finds with statuary, a sprinkling of coins, bronze belt buckles, and a stash of heavy Roman boat anchors that pay homage to Sardinia‘s seafaring history. They share the space with the art collection of Giovanni Sanna, whose family built the museum.

Next we visited the famous fountain, Fontana di Rosello, crafted in 1606, which first supplied the aqueduct for the nearby seaport of Porto Torres. Later, the citizens of Sassari hauled the water away in buckets by hand and on donkey — before dinner, we assume.

At one point during our walk we happened by a souvenir shop hocking tee shirts that read, “No Mirto, No Party.” Intrigued, we stepped in to ask the proprietor, What’s Mirto? With little language in common, we learned through hand signals and interpretive dance that Mirto is a traditional Sardinian liqueur that tastes harmless, but in half an hour all hell breaks loose. Immediately upon arrival back at the hotel, we started our own research in English. Mirto, we found, comes in two varieties, red and white, and is made from the myrtle plant — the red (rossa) is made from the berries, the white (bianca) from the leaves. Nothing about hallucinations. Since we were not sure who to trust — Wikipedia or the guy at the souvenir shop (could he have been exaggerating just to sell us a tee shirt?) — we felt that further, more personal research must be done.

We made our way to Piazza Italia, home of the only clock in Sassari that tells the correct time. It resides on the provincial capital building, the Provincia di Sassari. After dark, Sassari really comes alive. The plaza was filled with outdoor cafés, strolling families, necking teenagers and, as always, the old guys sitting on benches, watching.

Situated at an outdoor table, we decided to start with the Mirto Rossa. Very sweet, 32 percent alcohol, with a back taste of herbs. We enjoyed some people-watching, letting some time pass, hoping that the effects of the drink will not be too harsh. Still coherent, we decided to share a Mirto Bianca. The herbal taste of the Bianca is more obvious, as the sweetness of the berries has been eliminated. Again we wait for the hallucinations. Nothing.

Our study concluded that while Mirto will warm your spirit, it’s probably best not to expect a mind-expanding experience, but it may make you want to exclaim the local howl of “Aiooo!”

9. Set the kid’s computer so all the bookmarked porn and poker sites go to GoArmy.com.

8. Invite your friends over to have a party in your child’s room. Trash it and smoke all of the dope.

7. Buy a chauffeur’s hat and start calling your child “Jeeves.”

6. Hack into the kid’s My Space page and change the profile picture to a slug.

5. Say, “I’m glad to have you home but I’m afraid Dad might miss using your bed for ‘our quickies’.”

4. Throw a bridal shower for your child’s high school flame on Super Bowl Sunday.

3. Decorate the room as a nursery and say, “Won’t it be great to share your room with your new baby sister?”

2. Secretly sprinkle all the leftovers with Metamucil.

1. Ask your kid to stay home one evening and say, “Dad’s been awfully frisky lately and I’m worried about his heart. You don’t mind listening in on the old baby monitor, do you?”

I’m an advice column junkie. I can’t help it. I kick off my morning with a frothy soy latte, my “Crack”berry and a heavy dose of the “Dear crew.”

When I’m lucky, I can persuade my husband David to play along with a game of “What would Dear Abby do?” If he’s is in a particularly sporting mood, we can delve far beneath the layers of the written word. What if the husband, “Chip,” is really in need of Viagra, and is not, in fact, having an affair as “Horny in Hoboken” thinks? What if the meddling mother-in-law, “Madge,” has a point — maybe “Good Mommy in Leavenworth” is, indeed, a bad mommy. Normally, I can convince myself that it is a game of good clean fun. The anonymity of Chip, Madge, and Horny are fascinating and comforting — obviously, these semi-fictitious characters have problems too.

But today’s column is just plain disturbing. And any baby boomer might have written it. It involves a mother who is a newly retired homeowner with an outstanding mortgage. Unless she is the CEO of a major publicly traded corporation, this lady is on a whopper of a fixed income. Now get this: she has two butthole sons, aged 22 and 24, living in her home and she has asked them to pitch in and pay $30 a week. “Stressed-Out Mom” says they are now “ranting and raving and calling her a bad mother.” She goes on to ask if she is being unreasonable. What?!?

Kick those pot-smoking, Cartoon Network-watching little punks out of your house! How can you even ask if you are being unreasonable? It’s time for you to grow some balls and live the life that you have worked your butt off for. They are friggin’ able-bodied men who are completely taking advantage of your enabling ways. Are you going to raise their kids, too? Because sooner or later, one of them will actually get a date with a loser girl who doesn’t care that she’s seeing a guy who lives with his mommy. Then you are going to have quite the zoo on your hands.

I’m sick and tired of hearing about Boomerang ‘Kids’ and how hard it is for them to make it on their own in the big, bad world. Granted, our generation tended to be more involved with our children’s education, nurtured their every talent, made sure they were safe from balloon-related latex allergies … but the helicoptering MUST stop at some point. The longer we wait, the bigger and badder the world will seem to our offspring.

“Stressed-Out” should have started her sons along a different path a long time ago. Isn’t part of the job to teach your kids to care for themselves? I didn’t raise my son and daughters to be good kids, I raised them to be real adults. That means once they are of age, they are on their own. They began hearing about this early and often. As they headed off to college, they didn’t expect to hear, “Honey, come back any time things get hard.” “Watch out for the screen door” was a bit closer to the mark. They know I love them. Enough to want them to have lives they are proud of. That’s not going to happen in my basement.

David and I have one chick left in the nest. He graduates from high school in June. And I am marking the days. I keep a gigantic calendar and mark a red X each day. For my son’s sake (and to avoid horrified looks from house guests), I keep the calendar between the mattresses of my bed.

I’m fully aware how bad this looks, so I will explain myself. I LOVE MY KIDS! Good, now I’ve got that out! But,when June rolls around, I will have spent almost twenty five years of my life raising them. I deserve this dirty little secret.

Such callousness does not make me impervious to the emotional milestones along the way. I recently received my son’s cap and gown picture taken at his school. My heart literally stopped when I saw it. I have spent many moments in the privacy of my bedroom looking at this and his other school photos and wondering how my baby has gotten so big. And in time I will be strong enough to take the photos down from the ceiling above my bed. Maybe when we put the house on the market.

I have learned that it pays to plan ahead so you can avoid random emotional outbursts. My oldest daughter will never forgive me for my coyote-like howling from the front row aisle seat at her graduation ceremony. So I have resolved that on my son’s graduation day, I will not sit in the vicinity of any of the following people:

1) Other mothers graduating their youngest child
2) Single mothers graduating their only child
3) My husband

The school community at large will thank me.

I have similar plans for my son’s last Tuesday with us, the last macaroni and cheese dinner, his last dentist appointment, and of course, the last time he throws his shoes and socks into the middle of the living room floor. Trust me, it pays to have your bases covered when you have the tendency to be an emotional wreak.

If all else fails, I can just take a peek under my mattress …

[Read more from David & Veronica at their Web site, The Gypsy Nester.]

When Veronica and I came up with the idea to write about living life after raising kids, and actually looking forward to it, one of the first things I did was Google “empty nesters.” I wanted to see if anyone was looking at this the same way we are. You know, isn’t it great that the kids have moved out and we have life to ourselves again?! To be untethered and free to wander the globe. To be Gypsy Nesters instead of empty nesters.

But no, just about everything I found lamented how terrible it is to not have the kids around anymore. The main item on the very first page I clicked into was an enormous ad for an Alzheimer’s patch. Holy crap! We just finished raising our kids; we’re not dead! If twenty-some odd years of child rearing has caused me to lose some memory (or eyesight, hearing, mobility or … um … I forget … whatever), by golly I’m gonna count it as a plus and learn to like it.

Do I really want to remember every battle fought along the way? I think not. I’ll gladly let my memory fade just enough to color the overall picture and recall it as pretty good stuff. I must be missing something here on the web. Are these people daft?

There is even a syndrome name now, because these days even the smallest emotion or complaint must be labeled as something: this one is Empty Nest Syndrome. No doubt, right this second, several pharmaceutical giants are frantically testing some drug that was originally intended to treat some truly dreadful disease to see if they can market it as the only way to escape the treacherous death grip of EMPTY NEST SYNDROME. That reminds me, I didn’t sleep all that great last night; I must remember to get to the doctor to get something done about this insidious Periodic Interrupted Sleep Syndrome (better known as PISS) that I’m suffering from.

But I digress (yet another syndrome perhaps?). Let’s go back to the original dilemma. Shouldn’t we be looking forward to this empty nesting portion of life? Most of us have made more than a few sacrifices to get here, so I say, stick a fork in me, I’m done. It’s not selfish to take a little time for yourself at this point. It’s insane not to.

We are animals, and as such, continuation of the species is one of our prime motivations. However, unlike the other critters, when we have finished the job, we’re allowed to have some fun. Give yourself a pat on the back! Job well done, the kids have grown up into large human beings fully capable of feeding themselves. I, for one, am a firm believer in letting them do their own hunting and gathering. Trust me, when they get hungry, they will find food, but you have to let them do it for themselves. Otherwise they’ll end up like zoo animals. If you feed the tigers every day, they never learn to hunt. Then when you put them in the wild, they starve. Personally, we taught our little cubs that if they get really hungry, they can always kill and eat a bag of Ramen noodles.

They’ve gotten pretty good at it too.

[Read more at The Gypsy Nesters.com]