My son is leaving home.Like really, properly leaving home. He has a job as a teacher for the beginning of September in a city that he loves – so that’s good – and has organised himself a little place to live. A proper grown up single person’s abode. Tiny…but that’ll make it easier to keep clean and tidy. (Yes, well – he’s not awfully good at that but then I am his mother and I’m not terribly good at that either!) I know that he’s quite excited and somewhat apprehensive. He’s organised furniture (being delivered today) and Broadband – well, der! – and is adamant that he won’t need a tv or a place to sit. Really it’ll be a place for him to do his work, play online games, record his music and sleep. And he will have slightly more room than he has at the moment in the bedroom at home he’s had since he was 6. He knows the city well as it is where he went to Uni, so he already knows where the good hangouts are.
And me? Well…its not the same as when he was going to Uni even though he is off to the same place and we know that we can do it as a day trip. He won’t be coming home for weeks at end of termtimes. We won’t be able to sit and watch silly things on Netflix together that he has recommended that I watch – and usually gets it right. We won’t be able to just hop on a train up to London to see a Concert or a Show on a whim.
It will be really strange. I know that he’s a grown up and that he couldn’t afford to move out if he’d stayed in this area and that this is a sensible and good thing for him to do, but still. He’s my boy. Always has been, always will be.
It’ll be a learning curve for us all.