Empty Nest. Full Heart. Long Summer.

Yesterday, while driving my son home from lunch, I had one of THOSE parenting moments.

Yesterday, while driving my son home from lunch, I had one of THOSE parenting moments.

Anyone with post-toddler-era kids has likely had this experience. Sometimes, it’s triggered by a song or a tv show. I know for sure, I’ve had it with the last ten minutes of Toy Story 3. And I definitely experience it every time I click on a detergent commercial where a solider comes home early from the war and surprises his wife by hiding under a catcher’s mask.

It’s that moment where you desperately try to not let you kids see you crying, while thinking of the limited time we have left with them. And invariably, we fail to shield said tears. I know I do.

So yesterday, that moment involved me having my teenage boy in the backseat, while I shifted uncomfortably in the front seat, in the hopes that he doesn’t see me sobbing in the rear view mirror when Cat Steven’s “Father and Son” came on Spotify. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have played a playlist called “Cat Stevens ‘Father and Son’” but that just affirms how much my kids leaving has been on my mind.

I should clarify right off the bat that I’m not an empty nester, per se. But I was for the entire summer. So I have tons of practice in experiencing existential dread and eating at California Chicken Cafe by myself.

This summer, my daughter was away in Tel Aviv, Israel for 9 weeks working for a non-profit. My son was in Eagle River, Wisconsin for 8 weeks of sleepaway summer camp.

Want to know two things I never did as a young person? Go to a sleepaway camp as a kid. Or work in a foreign country as a young adult. I never had anywhere near the confidence or comfort in my own skin to attempt either. The closest I came was living in San Diego for six months. (That experiment failed in large part because other than Steve Garvey, I was the only man in San Diego County not sporting a luxurious CHP-style mustache. But that’s for another, much longer story.)

True, there are plenty of other things I’ve never attempted like parasailing or anchoring a tug of war or consuming hallucinogenic mushrooms. Heck, I’ve never even tried growing a luxurious, CHP-style mustache. (But that’s for another story. Possibly one of equal length.)

Obviously, as a smart, well-adjusted father, I should be incredibly proud of my children. At their age, I was paralyzed by fear and severe panic attacks. I’d never have had the courage and confidence to try the new experiences they’ve taken on.

But as me — the less smart, less well-adjusted version — I can’t help but ask my wife, “Did you have to make them THIS confident?” I knew they’d be independent and separate from us. But did it have to be so soon and age-appropriate?

Lately, I’ve been feeling all the feels. My kids are at an age where they aren’t around much anymore and when they are, they are doing their own thing. I’m at an age where I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about my kids not being around very much and doing their own thing.

In the very limited sample size of people I speak to about my feelings (my wife and my Israeli therapist), I’m told that this lamenting of the kids being away is largely a “dad issue.” I’m not trying to truck in gender-biased or hetero-normative tropes, but moms are exponentially more likely to see a summer off as a vacation from re-filling sippy cups or driving to endless volleyball practices than as the impending sign of a psychological apocalyspse.

But then, I’ve always been keenly aware of the finite amount of time we get with our kids as kids. I’m pretty sure I started crying about my daughter leaving for Cal, seconds after my wife’s water broke.

Maybe it’s just my hobby. Some men play racquetball or have affairs. I lament the passage of time.

I know I’m supposed to be all stoic and philosophical and even take pride in raising cool. confident children. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I wish I was that kind of, glass is half-full of gin sort of writer.

Last week was a big one in our house. My daughter was home from Israel for six days before returning to college. My son was home from camp. And they overlapped for one celebratory family meal.

I felt happy. I felt sad. I mostly felt blessed. Then they all mocked me for being obsessed with the history of the Valley, hot dogs of the Valley, Phish and the A Star is Born trailer. Sure, it made me a little bereft I can’t have this every night. But with everything going on in the world, I’ll take a happy, healthy family for one night any time.