The Restive Nest

This morning, I woke up searching for offspring.

Manny, still under the weather with some mysterious ailment (I know this because his ordinarily upward curled tail has been ramrod straight and pointed toward the floor for three days and he did not wake me in the wee hours of the morning to try to con me into a little breakfast), seemed unconcerned about the emptiness filling the house. With everybody else gone, he took advantage of the morning's flurry of inactivity and slept in. I did not know what to do. I willed myself to relax and stay in bed, just as normal people -- and dogs -- do on Sunday mornings. Maybe even get rid of some of the dark circles  around my eyes that appear to be widening at an alarming rate.

I shot my youngest a quick text to make sure she had arrived safely in France. Okay, well I was fairly certain she had arrived safely as I had not heard otherwise, but I needed an excuse to connect with her. I was feeling overly nostalgic for our standard morning interaction, my delivery of a tall white mocha to her room before she slams the door in my face. If it is possible to glean anything from the tone of a text, she is safely across the pond and bitchy with sleeplessness. I pity the person in charge of delivering her cafe au lait. She seemed particularly annoyed that she and the girl with whose family she is staying for the next two weeks don't really understand each other. Damn foreigners. Somehow it was easier long distance, both of them tapping away on their iPhones, complete with apps for translation. I'm thinking maybe I should have purchased a more expansive international messaging plan.

Texting or calling my son in Japan is not an option, since he, for some reason, does not have a phone. I considered emailing or Skyping, or maybe even sending him a message on Facebook, but, if history is any indication, there would be no immediate -- or even imminent -- response, and I would eventually tire of watching my phone for a flashing red light that might indicate my son was trying to reach me. Odds are my hopes would be dashed, as usual; it would be Victoria's Secret getting a jump on Sunday, trying to lure me out of bed with news of a sale on lacy thongs. Ugh. Slash the price on some good, old-fashioned granny pants and they might capture my attention.

Plan A -- which I had early on rejected for fear of, well, rejection -- was to contact my eldest daughter, the one who is actually in the same metropolitan area as I, within driving distance, at least today. Her time in Chicago is limited, and much of it tends to be reserved for her friends. I get it, and I refuse to be one of those moms who tries to insert herself in her daughter's busy life, taking up valuable time that could be so much better spent with people her age. People who aren't moronic. People who don't irritate her with nagging comments and stupid questions. People who can stay up past eight in the evening. Fuck it. I decided it was a good day to call in a few chits, payback for the twenty-three hours of labor and the twenty-three years of worry tacked onto that. And I could catch her when she was down -- virtually immobilized from running a half marathon the day before.

As luck would have it, she is in dire pain, barely able to get out of bed, and, best of all, without plans. So off I will go this afternoon, to spend time with one of my little birds, to alleviate the emptiness that fills the nest.