My oldest child is 21, my second oldest is 19. As they were growing up, I knew in my rational brain they would eventually grow up and move out. Although I think I secretly bought in to their 6 year-old declarations of “living with mommy forever!” I cheered as they stood on the wall to measure their height – always growing up, up, up. As they accomplished feats that seemed unattainable – walking, reading, sleepovers, I cheered for them and basked in the glow of their pride. I marveled in their changing features, creepily staring over them some nights as they slept (sorry guys!). As sleep away summer camps came, I agreed – I cried as they left on the bus, but I agreed. As licenses were obtained, I watched (and cried) as they drove away. As foreign travel was pursued, again, I agreed (crying a lot though) – both times. Still, the reality that comes with the birth of your child – that they will one day leave you – although present in my rational mind, never was allowed to enter my heart. And for really good reason it turned out – it probably would have killed me dead.

A few months after turning 18, my oldest moved in with friends and my bubble burst. It hit me like a mac truck I didn’t see coming and opened up a well of pain I truly never believed possible – and I have been through some bad stuff! The moment I saw his bed gone from his room, I felt the crash and I crawled in to bed – where I stayed for almost three days. Now this behavior was just not me and took me almost just as surprise. I usually get knocked down, take a minute and get back up. Not this time. My family bubble had burst – the bubble I had built around our little family the part 18 years – the one that kept traditions intact, memories and moments happening and my life revolving. Everything, Was. Different. And it sucked. And continued to suck. Anytime he did return for dinner or to visit, you could feel his one foot out the door and it hurt. It all just hurt and I didn’t know what to with it. Christmas was probably the worst, without him waking up in the house and just stopping by – but this was the new normal. I didn’t like it. I don’t like it.

Next, my second born left for college. Yes, I was excited she was college-bound and of course proud and all of that blah, blah, blah. But I also had an idea now of what was coming – the mac truck was revving it’s engine and there was no where for me to hide. I put on a brave smile and dropped her in her dorm room on the appropriate day at the appropriate time, then proceeded to sob in the elevator, on the street and a good part of the 1.5 hours back home. I crawled in to bed and let the pain come again. My younger boys had seen it before and began drawing pictures of our forever life together – they are still young enough to promise they will live with me forever! I let the hurt wash over me and knew it would eventually numb a bit. It still sucked and still sucks.

Thank goodness I have some time before my younger boys leave the nest but still – it will suck.

I can quite honestly say, and am shocked I have not read it from others, being a parent to older children hurts in a way that is hard to describe. And I know it is not them personally causing the pain, but more the ache of those chapters being over for us. I am so grateful I had those chapters, and for all the chapters to come – I am not cursing any moments or memories I am blessed to be given with any of my children – I am simply stating what I found on the other side of the bubble bursting. It sucks and it hurts – yay adults!