I cried yesterday. Like a baby – tears and snot and everything.
I haven’t cried for four years, then yesterday – blub city.
My baby left home. For good. For real. For ever.
I hope – I don’t want to be one of those mothers stuck with a forty-year-old layabout who won’t get a job and expects me to cook and clean and iron for him. I’ve done my time; I kept him fed and watered and clothed and alive. I’m not doing it again.
Four years ago, we took Tory Boy to university and as I said goodbye, I shocked us all – including me – by bursting into tears. I cried half the way home. At the traffic lights just outside the campus, I looked behind to see a row of cars with a bawling mother in each front passenger seat. Guess I’m normal, after all.
I did my crying then for my baby leaving home, becoming a man, yadda-yadda-yadda. I didn’t expect it to happen again. All this week I’ve been chivvying Tory Boy along, to get his room packed up. He took a small case yesterday and the rest will be sent on once he has a permanent home (it may be the YMCA for a couple of weeks until he gets settled). Although he will always have a home with us etc., etc., if he needs it, I’m not keeping shrines to my children when they move out – I want storage space and office space and a spare bedroom.
I love my kids but I’m a pragmatist. They know that, which is why Tory Boy – Tory Man – Assistant Producer Boy-Man-?? What? What? What should I call him? – which is why he knew I meant it when I said I would be permanently furious if I had to pack up his stuff for him. I want the child out. I want him to feel as if he’s moved out. He’s a man now, with a job and a life and he doesn’t need a bolt hole any more.
Which is why I burst into tears and sobbed on his shoulder when I said my goodbye.
Mothers! Can’t live with them; can’t please them by moving out.