Years ago when I first heard the term "empty nest," it sounded like a pleasant position to be in.  I had three toddlers and the thought of waking up in the morning fully rested, instead of having my eyes pried open by tiny fingers, was quite attractive.

I correctly assumed that in an empty nest, I could wear clothes without spit-up stains, finish sentences when speaking to my husband, and carry a purse without squeak toys, or pacifiers, or cookie crumbs.

Oh, the beauty of dinnertime without spilled milk, a house without the background sounds of crying, walls without sticky fingerprints, and being able to sleep through an entire night.  I could push a shopping cart that was filled with groceries instead of children!

However, when I reached that sought-after goal, it was rather a disappointment.  Up close, the empty nest no longer looked quite as attractive.  This was partly because the ensuing years had automatically solved many of the distasteful parts of motherhood.  For some time, no one had been spitting up on me or crying to be fed in the middle of the night.  Nobody needed to be bathed or dressed or have their shoes tied ten times a day.  Just when the children became pleasant company, they moved out.  Is there no justice?

I tried not to look into the three empty bedrooms as I passed by them.  Even though the beds were all neatly made, the rooms lacked character.  The one-eyed teddy bear was missing from his favorite spot on the floor.  School books, papers, and cans of hair spray had all disappeared.  The closet doors covered vacant areas that at one time had been stuffed beyond their limits.

When I finally crept out of my depression to take a peek around me, I noticed my dear husband, Jack, looking almost the same as when I had fallen wildly in love with him.  Except for showing a bit of wear and tear, the years had been good to him.  I fondly looked at the gray hairs at his temple, knowing exactly where they had come from.  I caught myself grinning when I realized that the creases on his face were smile lines, not worry wrinkles.

As I sat gazing at him, I realized my nest was not empty after all.  It still held the one special person I had chosen to share my life with.  In the quiet of the empty nest, it might be easier for us to find each other.  As I looked at him I wondered if maybe, just maybe, we could rekindle the sparks we had originally ignited.  And then, as if to answer my unspoken question, he looked up at me and winked.