Yes, I wept when my children went to college — but they were tears of joy!
As empty nests drive parents to drink or cry uncontrollably
Mums, have you had the memo? The one that says it’s time to start weeping and wailing if you have a son or daughter heading off to university? Apparently, when it comes to this exciting rite of passage in a teenager’s life, there are no reasons to be cheerful if you are their mother.
Every september, intelligent women seem to lose their heads about the dawn of a new academic year. Empty bedrooms become shrines and parents sob over the lack of washing and stacks of dirty crockery — all the things they have previously complained about.
You’d think their offspring were off to war, not to live in a centrally heated ensuite room and bag themselves a degree and a bright future.
The devastation seems to be especially acute this year, with families having spent so much time in close proximity during lockdown. A survey this week suggests almost a third of parents are drinking more to ease the transition, while others are filling the void with cleaning or by buying a pet.
The research also found some are suffering symptoms of grief, such as panic attacks and sleeplessness, and others even go so far as to describe it as a time of ‘mourning’.
Apart from the fact that hijacking the word ‘mourning’ to describe a child becoming an undergraduate is an insult to parents who have actually lost a child, I have another reason for hating the way this life stage is treated as a cause for sadness.
my nest upended at great speed and regularity because I had four children in three years.
As ThEY departed, one after the other, I did cry. But they were tears of joy and relief, not sadness. my euphoria as they left the family home was not just because I was glad to see them leave. It was because I was so grateful I was alive to see them leave.
I’ve survived cancer twice. Once when they were tots and again when they were in secondary school. so I felt so privileged that I was able to hug them long and hard and send them on their way.
I was 33 when I was given my blood cancer diagnosis. All I could think about was my children, sam, seven, Ally and Jess, five, and Erin, three. Every hope and dream I’d ever had was erased in an instant.
seeing the pyramids? Writing for TV? having a home by the sea? Running the New York City marathon? Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
It was as if my memory had been wiped and those ambitions were transplanted by the simple wish to see my children start secondary school, go to university, have career choices, find love and live out their ambitions. I bargained with the universe for my health to stretch to those events. In my most fearful moments, I would have settled for just one more hour with them.
my first symptom was fatigue. On Christmas Day in 1993 I had to leave the table for a nap. my sister thought I looked pale and said I should see a doctor.
I took her advice and it wasn’t long before I discovered I had a form of leukaemia found almost exclusively in older men. statistically, I had more chance of winning the lottery. some luck.
Treatment was aggressive. my disease was advanced and chemotherapy itself was risky because my immune system would be wiped out. my husband brought the children to visit while I was having treatment. Once. Even now, decades later, the occasion is almost too painful to recall.
I had hung a towel over my drip stand to hide it from them. They had all made get well cards for me that shed sequins and pasta wheels around their feet. One was clutching her tooth fairy box with a 50p coin inside. I had missed one of her teeth falling out.
Then they started to plead with me to get out of bed and come home with them. They extended their arms for hugs I couldn’t give. my husband, fighting back tears, tried to marshal them out and back to the car.
The fact that I am still here, after two ugly skirmishes with leukaemia, to share in their lives means that every step they take is a cause for celebration, never sadness. This is why I have little patience for those who make their children’s big events about their feelings.
I met many women in hospital during my treatment who didn’t want to leave their children, but cancer gave them no choice. I still grieve for them and am grateful every day that I am staying ahead of the disease, although I know it could creep back into my life at any time. It’s sneaky like that.
Cancer is a wrecking ball, no matter how brave you are. my mother and five of her sisters all died young of breast cancer.
my leukaemia came back just in time for my 40th birthday. This time I was ready because I wanted more time with my children.
But even without my cancerinspired determination, I think I would still have had many ‘whoop whoop’ moments when my teenagers left home for college.
household chores melted away, as if by magic. I didn’t miss their mess one bit. I mean, who leaves their dirty socks in the fruit bowl? I won’t name names.
Grocery shopping became a joy with a basket for two, not a heaveho around the aisles with a trolley packed Jenga-style with supplies. The days of the big shop — and the big eat — were over.
And why was it only me, shortsighted and in glasses, and not my 20/20-vision kids, who could see the soap ring around the bath?
Talking of washing, each of my four seemed to use three towels every time they washed, and it felt like they showered or bathed at least twice a day. I had been living in wet towel hell for years.
I am happy to admit I found them leaving home liberating. It felt like my brain had been spring cleaned. I could finish a thought. With the peace and quiet, I managed to write a best-selling book.
Yet the zeitgeist now seems to be that mothers go over the top to prove to their children how much they will miss them when they leave home to study.
LAsT week I heard a woman in my local coffee shop say: ‘I just couldn’t hold it in — I sobbed in sainsbury’s when I saw Lucy’s favourite brand of muesli right there on the shelf.’
Listening a little longer, I learnt that muesli-loving Lucy is studying at a university four Tube stops from home. she’s been ‘away’ for ten days and has already been home for dinner four times.
Then there was the woman I overheard in Costa in West London. ‘sam’s room smells so fresh now he’s gone,’ she said. ‘Don’t laugh, but I even miss hearing his farts.’ Yes, really.
Young people heading to university are off to get a life. maybe their hysterical mothers should consider doing the same.
Those who bemoan their loss seem to forget that going to university is a temporary, and not compulsory, separation. The kids are soon back with their smelly laundry and a hand outstretched for a cash injection.
And in any case, you’d better get used to it, because they may never properly return. my children, now in their early 30s, are all gone. After university, they didn’t come home for long. They made happy lives and homes of their own.
Their independence has taught me that loving them from afar has never meant loving them less.
so, mums, please stop snivelling and start smiling. Celebrate your children’s success, don’t ruin their departure to university by becoming an emotional jelly.
Let them go. That’s your job and you are lucky to have it.