Tag: moving out

I think for me as a mother night time is the hardest in regards to all of this.

We as mothers sleep the best when our little chicks are home. When we hear the door open, the shuffle of feet, the dropping of the backpacks, the closing of the door, and the trudging down the hall to their bedroom- we then give a content sigh of relief because we know everybody is home safe and sound, and we to can finally go to sleep.

When my kid lived at home I would often swing by his room, hang out in his doorway and ask him how his day was, catch up, touch base, give him a hug and often unsolicited advice. Ha ha – that he may or may not find helpful down the road.

And then I’d go on about my business and everybody would break off into their own areas and do their own thing until it was time to go to bed.

I’d always holler out “good night! I love you! Talk to you in the morning!” I would always get some sort of muffled reply, a grunt, sometimes an I love you back but it was always some sort of an acknowledgment.

And now when the sun goes down it’s just me and my partner. The chattering of the TV with its incessant noise. He and I making small talk about everything and nothing.

“What sounds good for dinner tomorrow?”

“Oh wow, it’s supposed to be 100 tomorrow remind me to water early”

“Have you heard from the kid? How’s he doing?”

Junk like that.

But now there is no kid that comes down the hallway, out into the family room to give us a running commentary on whatever he’s doing or his latest political opinion, to tell us he’s hungry and to inquire about what’s for dinner.

It’s just silence.

And the worst part about all of this is when I walk down that long dark hallway to my bedroom, rounding the corner, and the lights are off in his room it’s just a stark reminder that he doesn’t live here anymore.

And in my head I know that’s right.

But in my heart, that ain’t right.

They tell me that in time I will feel better. They tell me in time I’ll get into a whole new routine, just like my mother before me, and her mother before her, and her mother before her.

I will say I’m still a little annoyed that they don’t prepare you for this when we were in junior high school.

They don’t tell you in school about loss. The only things I learned about loss was through my goldfish dying or my cat dying or my dog dying.

For that matter, when my grandparents died – my siblings and I were at the dining room table eating toast and drinking hot chocolate. My mother came into the dining room looking very sad and telling us that our grandmother had died. I remember vividly looking at her and asking her mid-chew if she was OK and I didn’t miss a beat when I said can I go outside and play after this?

Kids are so resilient and they have this uncanny ability to compartmentalize. I think on one hand I was worried about my mom for a hot minute but then I wanted to make sure I got down to the neighbors so I could jump on my favorite swing.

I really wish I had that capability at present day. But right now I don’t. Right now I’m sort of treading water in reminiscing lane. Organizing the house, throwing away old things I haven’t used in years and going through many old photographs of when my son was a little kid.

Smiling at many of these photographs and crying through others as I run my fingers over the photograph hoping I can feel the textures, smell the atmosphere of what was happening during that time as I fully remember the exact day and feelings when these photographs were taken.

I wonder if I’m being overly dramatic when I find myself not really being able to go in his bedroom. I mean it’s not like he died. I can still text him, call him, FaceTime him. I suppose I could even seek an audience with him and physically see him and sit in his presence.

But God dammit nobody prepared me that this would be so fucking hard. It feels so final. The idea that he will never walk through these doors and live here ever again is a lot. It’s just a lot.

And let me tell you when they say the dynamics change when your adult child leaves the nest they are not kidding.

It’s just funny / odd where your brain goes. Some of the most benign things. stop me in my tracks as I think about my kid.

I also naïvely thought that when he became an adult that I would just stop worrying about him.

Wrong wrong wrong

You worry, differently but you still worry. I don’t think we ever stop worrying about our kids.

I always wanted four kids so I wouldn’t be so devastated and heartbroken when the first one left the nest.

That’s not the way it worked for us we were part of the one and done club. So all of our “firsts” we’re also all of our “lasts”.

But my thinking is that regardless of how many children you have when that last one goes it’s got to be the worst. There’s really nobody else to mother our adult children but not really. We can give them advice, and sometimes they embrace it but other times they just roll her eyes and say whatever. Ha ha. (I know I did when I moved out).

I guess in many ways it’s kind of liberating and perhaps a relief to know that you launched them well and that they are on their own and thriving. Seeing them evolving into happy, healthy, productive independent adults is a great thing.

I don’t know about any of you, but there’s just something not right with walking down that long haul and seeing a dark bedroom.

Especially when it’s always been full of light and music.

My dirty rotten secret is sometimes I will walk into his room and stand in his closet and just smell his clothes.

How fucking pathetic is that?