Moving

My son has a job.

He’s had jobs before—motor repair, loan advising, and providing tech support at his university. Those, however, predated his degree. He graduated last spring and has found a great job. He wants to work there, they want someone who will stick around for at least two years, and overall, it’s a great fit.

He’s moving out. His workplace is a 2 1/2 drive from here, and for the first time in twenty-five years, he’s leaving home. He doesn’t have much to move, and very little furniture, so it ought to be easy to pack up his belongings and shift them to a new location. He’s considering a second bedroom, to provide a place for his weight equipment. Tomorrow, he’s going to look at rentals.

I have mixed emotions about the move. He won’t be leaving the state—we live in the United States—so he’s spared tasks like getting a new license plate and a new driver’s license. He investigated crime rates and found a safer place to live. He’s making enough money to live on, has a reliable vehicle, and is looking for housing close to work. Those are all positives.

We are regaining a bedroom, which will become a spare room. I can launder clothes without waking him up. There will be no more lectures about where to feed the cats. The punching bag and weight bench will disappear, and ice cream will last for more than two days. These are all good things, I tell myself.

I am a rotten liar.

For all the times I wished we didn’t talk chemistry and physics over dinner, or discuss the history of tanks, I see a looming gap where previous conversations about alloys and engineering and old technology were commonplace. No more invitations to see the new Star Trek or Lego Batman.

He will no longer explain what he’s doing if I enter his room. There won’t be anyone to buy chocolate milk for, watch My Hero Academia with, or listen to as he explains the stupid design strategies of the world’s most useless tanks.

I am his mother, yes, and I will miss him. It’s not only for that reason. He has become someone I enjoy, someone with a strong internal compass and compassion for those who suffer. He won’t be here to tell his parents to “get a room,” or point out my mind is in the gutter. The daily banter between us is about to become occasional, as will our fights to have the last word. He is not just my child, but an intelligent adult with his style of thinking.

He is not quite a friend, but more than my offspring. He is someone who has added to my life by being in it. I’m proud of him. He became the idealistic futurist not because of me, but despite me.

It’s a difficult adjustment, but when he sets this world on fire, I’ll be standing there applauding.