RIVER CITY JOURNAL: EMPTY-NESTERS FIND POST-HOLIDAY HAPPINESS

It is quiet, this post-holiday week. The seasonal fluster is over. Trips to Florida and to your favorite hometown are history. Visits with both sons while in sunny climes are finished. Older son is back in Boston between his Artic summer sojourn and his planned yearlong return to Africa. Younger son has concluded his four-week winter-break visit and has returned to his Kansas university.

In a word, the Sullivans are empty-nesters once again.

The first time the two of you were left alone to fend for yourselves without benefit of bright, strong sons, it was a sad occasion. No, sad is too mild. It was a woeful, mournful time of wailing and empty feelings.

That was before you discovered eating dinner in the family room.

When the boys were home, dinner was the one time everyone was together, and it was mandatory that the meal be eaten at a table with chairs and placemats and napkins and silverware and everything. Now you load up your plates in the kitchen, take them to the family room and eat in the comfort of overstuffed recliners, which is what the Romans and Greeks would have done if this lazy what's-his-name had been around at the time.

Nowadays you use bibs to keep foodstuffs from getting on your clothes. The last time bibs were in vogue in your house, boy-type tots were prone to grab a fistful of strained beets and rub them in their hair or fling a wad of green beans at the family cat.

But that's not all.

The joys of empty-nesting you have discovered include being able to leave a bed unmade if you feel like it. Or put your coats on the dining room table. And ignore them all night.

Younger son wonders what has happened to his parents, who obviously have been taking some tainted medicine or perhaps have fallen under the clutches of a messy cult.

While he was home, younger son took over the care and feeding of his parents. He prepared delicious meals that had to be eaten at the table. ("Look, Marge," you say, "what are these pieces of cloth under the plates?" "Placemats," she replies. "Don't you remember?" Younger son rolls his eyes in disgust tinged with fear that we may not be kidding.) He made his bed -- every morning -- which meant we had to make ours. He washed his clothes. A lot.

In the evenings, younger son refused to watch inane television shows. "Why don't you read a good book?" he suggested without a smile. That sounded vaguely familiar.

Finally the morning came for younger son to return to school. He loaded the tiny car with all sorts of things for his apartment -- all acquired during a shopping spree in the attic. There were a few wistful moments as he said farewell and listened respectfully to the ritual drive-safely-call-when-you-get-there speech -- perhaps his aging parents were actually reclaiming a responsible lifestyle.

Ere he drove out of sight, there were visions of pre-manufactured frozen breakfast foods dancing in your heads.

You didn't even shave.

The coffee grounds didn't get thrown away until late in the day.

Newspapers lay scattered over the kitchen table and counter tops.

Neither of you bothered to look to see if the other had made up the bed.

The stack of magazines intended for the bedroom made it to a chair in the hall. At least they were headed in the right direction.

Full-scale empty-nesting had been restored. And it's not half as bad as it's cracked up to be.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.