Re-entering the Empty Nest

I thought empty nest syndrome was a phenomenon that dissipated by sophomore year, when parents have finally realized that not having you at home can be a good thing. It may be hard at first for them to get used to the idea of having a life, you know, after 19 years of not having one. But the transition should be made by your sophomore year.

In my case, it's been the opposite. Freshman year, my parents were glad to have my siblings and me out of the house-I believe the phrases "good riddance" and "finally, some time to breathe" were tossed around a few times. In fact, I think my parents got a little too used to the idea of not having me around.

I came home during winter break last year only to find that my mom had converted my room into her own personal office and had done away with any evidence that it used to belong to me (goodbye, giant Bjork poster-hello, manuals on psychological theories and disorders). Oh, and my little sister had taken over my closet. I protested, but she had already prepared a logical response.

"You left," she said.

This year was different though. When I walked into my room, I thought I had stepped into some portal that took me back to the third grade. My mom had organized all my writing from elementary school, from poems to stories and essays-she's apparently kept 90 percent of them-and placed them all over my room. There was a story she left on my bed that I had written more than 10 years ago about not wanting to jump off the high dive and a drawing from around the same time about being hypnotized to go to school. I didn't really understand the significance of these two artifacts, so I turned off the holiday lights that my mom had turned on (for me) and went to sleep.

The next morning, as I was getting my fifth hour of sleep, I tossed in my bed and found that someone was sitting down to the right of me. I almost had a heart attack. My mom was about two inches away, just staring and smiling at me. For god knows how long.

Did I mention it was 7 a.m.?

"Desi! Desi-wesi! Are you awake? I miss you! I miss you sooo much!" (Cue baby noises.)

"Mrghm," I responded, pulling the covers over my head.

I know she was excited to see me, since I hadn't been home since August. And I was excited to see her, but the empty nest syndrome thing had definitely gone a little too far. She'd rearranged everything in my desk drawers, my clothes, notebooks from last year-and even my photos. She had also taped up random awards and a Cal poster onto my wall.

It's embarrassing, to be sure. But there are certain things I do love about empty nest syndrome. Besides the constant attention and the fact that little things, like offering to help set the table for Thanksgiving, can have my mom gushing in appreciation. ("She's an angel! An angel!" she told the guests.) Empty nest syndrome has its fair share of awesome perks. For instance, my mom practically begged me to let her buy clothes for me. In her own special way, of course.

"Desiree, we need to buy you some nice clothes. You look like a bum," she said (in Persian, which for some reason made it sound slightly less offensive). "Actually, did you know not even the bums in Iran wore those shoes?" she added, eyeing the scruffy Converse sneakers I've been wearing since freshman year of high school.

My dad's also been acting more sentimental than usual toward me.

"So, watched the news lately?"

"Yep."

But like all good things, empty nest syndrome eventually comes to an end-usually before you've even gone back to school. By the last days of my L.A. visit, my parents were no longer obsessed with the fact that I was home. I think I even saw my mom switch one of my fifth-grade poetry books with a psych book.

Then, in the car, when I turned up the volume as the Smashing Pumpkins came on, my mom just turned it back down. What happened to empty nest? What happened to showering me with undeserved appreciation? The syndrome I had been making fun of with my friends, the basis of many embarrassing mom stories, was now gone. And I missed it dearly.

No worries-that's why the pity card exists.

"I'm sorry, I'm just used to turning up the volume on the radio during my two-hour dish duty on Friday nights," I said apologetically. "It's kind of the only thing that eases the pain."

"My poor baby!" she said, turning the volume back on again.

Manipulation? Pfft. I prefer the term "magic."

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