The Last One Out The Gate

I stood at the edge of the porch this morning, green Monster in my hands, eyes fixed on the drive that leads out the gate. The dew still clung to the fence posts, and the morning sun cast a golden light across the yard. But something was missing.

No rustle from that side of the house. The guest bathroom was still clean. Lola hadn’t been let out. Even Lil Ann wandered silently through the halls.

Just stillness.

Earlier this week, my youngest son pulled out of the driveway, headed for a life of his own beyond the gate. His brothers left in the years before but somehow, it didn’t feel quite real until now. There’s a finality in being the last one out.

For years, I was the one behind the scenes. The scheduler. The coordinator.  The road-trip mom.  The sandwich-maker (ok, food orderer). Vacation planner. The steady hands beneath it all. And now, I watch them go.

I Knew This Day Would Come

I raised them to be strong, independent, capable. Isn’t that what we want as mothers? But nothing prepared me for the silence that follows.

The kitchen table used to be the command center of chaos:  talk of the Roman Empire, weather, politics, climate, grades, romance, geology, farm animals, music, college exams, girl trouble, sports, and did I already mention the Roman Empire? Now I sit at it alone, hearing echoes in the creak of the floorboards and the hum of the fridge.

I always thought the hard part of parenting was the beginning.  I remember the sleepless nights.  The dazed mom in the morning trying to pull it all together.  The breast milk barf on my suit blazer.  Packing for a day as if we are leaving the country.  The crying at drop off that pulled my heart out of my skin. But this part? The letting go?

This part aches.  I hurt.

No Manual for the Quiet

There’s no manual for becoming an empty nester. Especially not out here, where identity and family are wrapped tightly in the rhythms of the home. His room is clean now.  In fact, the house is clean now. The laundry’s less demanding. The dishwasher is loaded, tines up.  I should feel relieved. Right?!?

But I miss the mess. I miss the mud on the floors, the dishwasher loaded wrong, the kitchen disaster from a "late night" snack, the laughter from a video game, win or lose and the face that I saw with an I love you.

This morning, I walked slowly with CaliGrl and Eire through the yard. No urgency. No chore list. Just me, CaliGrl, Eire and the farm. And I realized, I’m not just mourning the boys leaving. I’m also meeting a version of myself I haven’t seen in decades.

The woman who came before the babies. Who once chased corporate dreams, who needed to learn EVERYTHING, who believed everyday that she could maintain balance (oh, now that is funny) and achieve it all.  She learned early that leadership mattered and fought hard to become a leader people could trust. She’s still here. Just quieter now.

Somewhere Between Grief and Pride

So I’m learning to sit in this space, this stretch of land between grief and pride, between missing what was and imagining what’s next.

I still have purpose here. It’s just shifting. I may not be needed in the same way, but I am still rooted. Still strong. Still growing. Still want to possess all the knowledge (lol).  

To all the other moms out there, watching the dust settle after the last child drives away: I see you.  

I tell you, what I told myself today on my walk.  Your love built more than routines and meals. It built humans, amazing, capable, kind, ready to take on the world. And even in the quiet, you still matter.  You are still Mom and while the car may be gone from the drive, the heart of this home that you created still beats.  It always will.

Happy Thursday lovelies,

-srt