My friends and my coworkers know I hate change. This is incredibly inconvenient since life is basically nothing BUT. Even so , there are moments and there are moments. This is the latter.
In November of 2019, my oldest child who had started that fall at college recognized that the decision wasn't healthy and came home. It wasn't a huge surprise to me but I told him: Just come home. We'll figure it out. The decision turned out to be timely. March 2020: Covid lockdown. We were home, all day every day.
September 2020, the other child entered high school senior year virtually. We happen to be in that small demographic who benefitted from remote schooling, so we stayed virtual all year. (Graduated with honors, straight As. Yes, I’m proud.) Again, home all day, every day.
2021 arrived along with the numbing sense of Blursday. The sameness, the strangeness, the where-do-we-go-from-here-ness. What day is it? When did I wear pants?
In that fog, it would be a gap year for both, they said.
But then, a thing happened. From the depths of the slumbering state, ideas arrived. Inspiration. A direction, plans.
One set sites on LA; the other, college in Boston. Money was saved, applications were sent, acceptances were received.
Spring raced forward, then summer. Details became clear for both coasts. The paperwork, the documentation, the arrangements all listed and checked.
It happened so fast. And now, I draw a sharp, pained breath. My children are leaving.
I remember— very well, in fact— when I was where they are now. My freshman year of college, my first apartment. I was so freaking excited. To not know what the hell you’re doing , but to get out there and figure it out with friends. Becoming yourself. It’s magic, when you can do that- because it’s transformative and because not everyone gets to.
My first two apartments gave me some of my best friends, whom I adore, forty years later. People who I pick up conversations with as though we were just living together last year, not 1982 or 1985. I want that for my children.
They’re headed out. Sunday at 6 am, a plane leaves for LA. My first-born -- Mr. Bright Eyes, the midwife called him at birth-- will be on that plane with four friends. They'll share a living space and begin calling it Home.
Next month with the second child, we load up the car and run the freshman gauntlet that is arrival on campus, the first day in the dorm and college life.
So many of my friends have already been here, at the Empty Nest precipice. Here I am.
I'm not worried about boredom; I have more projects lined up than I can likely accomplish in my lifetime. I love time to myself, too. When I remember my own stumbling, serendipitous path in my 20s , I am both ridiculously excited for and proud of them for setting off on their own.
And yet.
Yet it won’t be the same. I remember that "going home" was never the same after that, after I was ready to leave. I understand this; it’s part of the parenting bargain.
I throw open my arms ushering them out, understanding that this is the change we are making. Knowing that they are both really leaving. I applaud them, and I weep. Both are true.
So we’re off for a new adventure, all of us.
Off we go.
Peace