Guest blogger Angela is a married mom of three who juggles work, school, and life from beautiful Southern Colorado. Her musings (and photos) on balancing it all (or not) can be found at This Woman’s Life.

We knew it was going to happen. We were encouraging it, in fact. The eldest moved into his own apartment, and while I was excited for him to be able to spread his wings, I also wanted to keep him home forever. Law dictates, however, that at 18, he’s an adult, so keeping him here against his will would have been akin to, oh, I don’t know…kidnapping?

At any rate, out he went, away from the chaos that is our lives here in Chez Klocke, and no sooner did I visit his apartment did I want to drag him back home. As I stood in the middle of his kitchen/living room, taking in the smell of mildew, and the view of mix-matched carpet, and the sounds of the highway traffic speeding by, I bit my tongue. It’s *just* his first place. It’s not like he’s in any danger (other than the normal imagined danger every mother has a talent for losing sleep over), and I’m certainly not a housing snob. But, you know, is anything ever good enough for our kids? (Well, besides the food we slave over the stove for that they reject, but that goes without saying.)

What I mean to say is, I’m not dealing well with one of the babies leaving the nest. It’s a strange feeling to know I won’t hear him coming in the back door late at night, making a tremendous amount of noise while *trying* to be quiet. Or that when I leave the kitchen clean before work, that I will return to it still being clean. And even that I will no longer find his black socks all over the living room.

Wait, now that I think about it, this could be a good thing.

But he’s lived with me for 18 years. That’s a long time to get used to someone’s habits, good and bad, and to expect to see them daily, even if it’s just the back of his head because he’s still asleep at noon. Eighteen years of “Mom” in his voice (followed by “…can I…?” or “…will you…?”) It just won’t be the same without him here.

Still, like many mothers before me have found, I need not worry about missing him too much. He just called to ask if he could come visit…and if his dirty laundry could come, too. I think I’ve seen him more this week than the last six months. And it’s only *been* a week.

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