this is such a nostalgic moment in a mother’s life w&h columnist allison Pearson reflects on empty nest syndrome

Allison PeArson ouR ColuMNIst REFlECts oN HER IMMINENt EMPty NEst

It’s your job – to teach them how to love, live… and leave

My son is leaving home. Not yet, not quite yet. We have a few more weeks together before tom departs for university. He is impatient to be off, of course, out into the big world. I want him to feel confident and happy so

I try not to let him see how my heart is pleating inside as I assemble a pile of stuff he will need. His blankie, the yellow honeycombed shawl my mum knitted when he was born, still lies under his pillow. Eighteen years old, like the child it has comforted so many times, the blankie is faded to cream from so many washings. I bury my face in it, thinking, don’t be sad, this is how it’s meant to be. you’re a mother, it’s the job. to teach them how to love, how to live and ultimately, how to leave. but, God, it hurts.

tom is my second and last child.

How I envy those friends who went for a third and still have more school years to come. all the endless lifts (“What am I? your chauffeur?”), the stinky sports kit, the raided fridge, that missing trainer I always got blamed for. things that, at the time, drove you nuts, now seem part of a beloved routine, one in which I had a vital role. Mum. Mummy. What am I now? Now that I won’t spend half my life at the foot of the stairs yelling, “CoME oN! We’ll be late. I’m going without you!”

I’ve heard about empty nest syndrome, that feeling of loneliness a parent may feel as their kids depart. I’ve seen women, particularly the ones that didn’t work, shipwrecked by the sense of loss. My friend Helen’s marriage fell apart when her third son went to leeds. suddenly, she looked at her husband and thought, “Who are we?” let’s face it, during the child-rearing years your relationship goes on the back-burner.

this is such a nostalgic moment in a mother’s life. the end of an era. that adorable little blond boy who was swamped by his uniform on his first day at school and lay on his back in the playground when I went to collect him because he was so tired. “I’m ’zausted,” he said tearfully. He’s taller than me now and he can pronounce exhausted. He pats me fondly on the head as I pack his suitcase and give him mini lectures on everything from the importance of regular toenail maintenance to using a washing machine. “Just chill out, Mum. stop worrying, I’m not a baby any more,” he protests.

stop worrying? I wonder what that would feel like. sorry, kid, I say, but worrying is kind of the job description. the job began 18 years ago when they handed him to me in the hospital. I didn’t think I could love anyone as much as I loved his sister, but here he was. My beautiful boy. I didn’t know it then, but it was the start of one of life’s most passionate relationships. Mother and son.

I don’t tell him any of that. I don’t tell him that being his mother has been the great adventure and joy of my life. and now it’s over. It’s not something to dread; this is the start of his great adventure and an exciting new phase for me with time to do the things I enjoy. still, where do the years go? I rejoice in the articulate, funny young man his father and I have produced, at the same time wondering what happened to my own youth.

tens of thousands of families across the country will be going through the same thing as we are. Pride mingles with sorrow. I remember when it was my daughter getting ready for college. For the previous five years, I’d yelled at her every day to tidy her room. then, as teenage bombsite gave way to spooky travelodge neatness, I couldn’t bear it. Her audrey Hepburn poster, her metropolis of make-up, her Rupert sanderson party shoes – my Rupert sandersons, actually – all disappeared into the maw of her suitcase. It was as if her childhood was being dismantled before my eyes. I didn’t want Evie to see me cry so I made frequent trips to the bathroom.

Now, I remember tom, absolutely enraged on his fifth birthday when he learnt that his big sister would always be older than him: “tHass sNot FaIR!” “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll be taller than Evie,” I promised. and he is. Now, as he’s about to leave home, I see him as I have never seen him before. as the man he will be. My baby always.

“It kills you to see them grow up and leave,” the novelist barbara Kingsolver wrote, “but it would kill you quicker if they didn’t.” and I guess that must be our consolation. We gave them life and they grew up to write their own amazing stories. My reverie is interrupted by a bellow from the kitchen.

“Mu-umm?”

“yes, love.”

“Where’s my other trainer gone?” ah, so maybe the job isn’t over. Not quite yet. Maybe it never will be. w&h