Suzanne Harrington: 'Empty Nest Syndrome'? More like 'At Last Syndrome'

Pic: iStock

Of all the hollow-sounding and made-up ‘syndromes’ foisted upon us, empty nest syndrome is surely the most bare-faced.

The one where middle-aged parents — mothers — allegedly wander from room to room, crying at empty spaces where once lay piles of discarded wet towels, weeping at still-full fridges, gnashing our teeth at the absence of dirty plates piled next to — but never inside — the dishwasher.

Bereft and purposeless, as though we exist to tidy up, to hold fort.

As if. Empty nest syndrome is a lie, constructed to spare the feelings of grown-up children, when their parents — mothers — crack open the bubbly on their departure. 

Any bubbly — Ballygowan, Fanta, Dom Perignon, whatever. At last, the house to ourselves. 

Finally, some headspace. Lots of headspace. Even when you adore your kids and live in peace, love and harmony with them — as most of us do, most of the time — there’s nothing quite like that deep exhalation when the door finally shuts behind them. 

Fly away, kids, to your new adventures. Have fun, be free, stay gone — for now, at least.

So where does empty nest syndrome come from? Who made it up? Magazines? Psychologists? The patriarchy?

Because it fits the narrative perfectly —woman as carer, woman as housekeeper, woman as fort holder, towel folder, sock finder, emotional labourer, and reminder of birthdays, wiper of surfaces, emptier of bins, payer of bills. 

And we’re supposed to feel sad when this ends? No offence, but are you fucking kidding me?

Suzanne Harrington. Pic: Denis Scannell

Let’s examine its meaning. A parent — mother — in her 50s, fit and active and full of beans, suddenly has the place to herself. Maybe there’s two of you — even better, providing you enjoy each other.

If you don’t, now’s a perfect time to knock it on the head (not literally – I’m not advocating murder). 

Since the nest emptied, an entire world of possibilities has opened up — rent the place out? Travel the world? Get a camper van? Go to university? Take up gardening? Become an activist? Write a book? Do a course? Or simply lie around, in the uncluttered stillness, luxuriating in the silence?

No matter how hard I look, I cannot see any downsides to this new living situation. Your kids have launched. 

They are elsewhere, gaining life experiences, becoming themselves. You’ve done a great job — well done you. 

And yet, according to empty nest syndrome, we are supposed to feel empty, sad, abandoned, aimless, bereft. It would be funny if it weren’t so patronising.

And yes, it’s gendered —the traditional trope of the mammy weeping with grateful joy as the hulking child regularly returns with a bursting bag of dirty laundry, ready to eat everything not nailed down, like the Tiger Who Came To Tea. 

And the mammy hovers, in Mrs Doyle overdrive, like an ad for instant soup from the 1970s.

Empty nest syndrome needs to be retired, put in historical storage alongside phrenology and snuff, and replaced with something which actually reflects reality. 

Like, yipppeeee at last syndrome. 

No offence, kids.