Spacious nest syndrome

My manchild has flown the nest. He’s moved out. He’s gone. He’s taken half my knives and my best duvet with him. And yet, to my amazement, he left my heart right here with me.

I am not heartbroken. I am not pining.

I am only swearing about the mountain of used towels he left in “his” bathroom (henceforth the guest bathroom) and the amount of his stuff that seems to be in accidental storage here. But I understand, because his new place is small and, besides, it’s probably the work of the karma fairy, because I still have boxes atop my childhood wardrobe at my own parents’ home.

Instead of empty nest syndrome, I find I have spacious nest syndrome. I don’t have to hide my gin, I have custody of the remote control and I’m not finding odd socks stuffed behind cushions. I was ready. We both were. After all, he’s 27, a man with his own life and strong opinions, too.

He’s been telling me what to do for far too long: “Mum, let the butter caramelise in the pan before you add the eggs; Mum, let me sharpen the knives because you wreck them; Mum, you should have got a fridge with an ice maker; Mum, nobody buys CDs any more; Mum, you need a better gardener/accountant/frying pan/ brain.”

In some instances, he’s right: browning the butter before scrambling eggs is delicious.

Clearly though, it was time for him to get his own nest. It’ll be interesting to see how he feathers it.

Happily, I’ll see it often, too, because he’s moved into a flat with his girlfriend just down the road.

This proximity means I’ve had to stop myself from randomly popping in when I’m passing, from being that sort of mother-inlaw.

However, finally they’re ready to officially entertain us. My son phones to ask if we’d like to come around for drinks. Yes please!

We discuss times and details, and then: “What do you want to do about food?” he says. “Should we cook?”

“Ah, no, don’t go to all that trouble.” “What about dinner though?” “Well … I suppose we can take you out for a bite afterwards?” “Awesome!” As I hang up I’m laughing, because I know I’ve been played. No matter, because I’m going to drink all his gin and leave my socks stuffed behind his cushions.