Originally published in the “In My Shoes” column for the Richmond Times Dispatch,

April 27, 2017

I have four kids. The youngest is 14, and sometimes I stare at him when he’s not looking and wonder if I can survive four more years of high school. It’s not his fault he came last in the lineup; he deserves a mom with the mental and physical energy to stand up to the demands of SATs, science projects, first dates, acne treatments and lost retainers.

But the truth is, I am TIRED. I feel as if I’ve been rolled through a pasta machine, but it is not the driving, cooking, sporting events, laundry, parent-teacher meetings, sicknesses and late-night conversations that have depleted me — it is college.

In the last four years, I have helped three kids through the college process and have delivered two of them to campus, with another ready to launch in August. The touring, application headaches, packing and hauling have not made this process tiring. What makes me feel pasta-rolled and flattened is the absence of those bundles of energy as they leave home — the enormous amount of emotional time it takes to process that my kids don’t live here anymore.

“Dorm-nesting” helps me prepare for their departures, but for the third child, I don’t think I’m going to have that opportunity. I’ve learned that boys don’t use an iron, soap, laundry detergent, bedding, lamps or anything on the college need list. When my first son was about to start his second year of college, he packed 10 minutes before he left. I saw him shove a mini-fridge, a small bag of clothes, a fuzzy blanket, Frisbees and an old backpack into his car. Oh, and golf clubs. That was it.

I helped the second one feather her dorm nest, which truly helped the transition for me. She had an SUV loaded past the weight capacity, and we considered renting a U-Haul, but preparing her new space somehow eased the pain of seeing her empty room at home.

After I say goodbye to No. 3 in August and watch him grow smaller in my rearview mirror, I will come home to a quieter house. As I pass the sofa each morning, I won’t see him there petting the dog before school. I won’t hear the ukulele or drum set while I’m cooking dinner, and his seat at the kitchen table will remain mostly empty.

These changes are major, so I am thankful that, after sending three horses off to the races in four years, I have some time to recover, and so does my youngest son, who has also suffered these losses. Rather than mourning what was, I want to enjoy what is — before I watch this last one ride off into the sunset, leaving the house empty — until they come back. But that’s another story.