The cutting of the apron strings may be a rite of passage but that doesn’t make it easier

Iknow we’re only mid-way through November but already my heart is full at the thought of Christmas. With each advertisement on the TV, and each Michael Bublé Christmas song played in a shop, I am reminded that the big day is getting closer and closer, and I simply can’t wait. But for me, it’s not 25 December that has my heart filled with festive spirit and a wish of peace to all men. It’s 18 December that I have circled on my calendar in bright red pen – because that is the day my first-born child returns from university in England to spend Christmas at home.

My eldest child, Joe, is currently enjoying the first semester of his dream university course in Manchester and I’m delighted to say he has settled into student life with relatively few hiccups. I, on the other hand have felt a whole new level of pining as the first of my baby birds has flown the nest.

I don’t think anything can prepare a mother for the absence of a child who has been such a major part of their life for the better part of two decades.

It has been a shock to my system just how much I have missed him popping his head around the door for a chat, or coming out to walk the dogs with me, making me laugh with his witty banter, or proud of his view of the world.

Perhaps most of all, I’ve missed knowing he’s asleep in his room, safe and sound at the end of each day. The cutting of the apron strings may be a rite of passage we all have to go through, but that does not make it easy to let go.

Joe and I had a bit of a rocky start together. I was 27 when I became a mother and while he was a very much wanted and plannedfor baby, his early days proved to be far from the ideal notion of motherhood I had built in my head. He was a colicky baby who would hold his breath when he cried until he started to turn blue. He suffered terribly with reflux and was frequently ill. After a prolonged labour I was exhausted and very quickly overwhelmed, and I slipped into post-natal depression.

I knew, logically, that I loved him. I did everything to make sure he was well looked after – transforming myself into some sort of robotic, perfectionist supermum. But inside I was falling apart. I was a mess of anxiety and exhaustion. I was floored with self-doubt.

I wondered what was wrong with me that I hadn’t had that first rush of all-encompassing love for my baby I had been promised in parenting books and magazines. This was not how it was meant to be.

When my son was about seven months old, and I had just returned to work, it all came to a head and I finally admitted I was struggling and got the help I needed. My husband arranged a short break for the three of us to have some quality time and it was while playing with my son in the hotel swimming pool that rush of love finally came. And it kept on coming.

I felt utterly overwhelmed with it again, but this time it was the good kind of overwhelmed. I finally understood what my friends had told me about. I fell in love with my son and I adored our time together – even the long hours we spent each night on the rocking chair singing him to sleep only to have him wake again the moment I tried to leave the room.

I loved the toddler he became, even if the terrible twos tested my patience. I loved the young boy that followed and the funny, unique and amazing way he saw the world. I loved the big brother he became. I even loved his teenage years, fraught at times though they were.

I loved watching this young man grow and develop into the person he is – a person who is the sum of his past experiences and an adult now, with unlimited potential.

Of course, I always knew that one day this person I had nurtured all his life would start to claim his own place in the world.

I’ve been preparing myself for it, listening to Landslide by Fleetwood Mac and crying buckets at the line, ‘I’ve been afraid of changing, ’cause I’ve built my life around you’.

For the past 19 years he – and subsequently his younger sibling – has been at the very centre of every decision I have made. Change is hard. Giving your children independence is hard.

Of course, my son still needs me. We speak most days, exchange WhatsApp messages and make plans together.

But nothing beats a hug and knowing that his heart, which once beat inside me, is back under my roof.

So this year, when I see the Christmas countdown kick off in style, I won’t grumble that it’s not December yet. I won’t complain about the commercialism of it all.

I’ll just see it as a countdown until the eighteenth, when I will go to the airport to pick my son up and bring him home for the holidays.