by Denise Dykstra

A friend of mine and I were recently having lunch together. We have a place we meet at that seems like it’s halfway between the two of us, (though we have never clocked it) and we know we’ll always have amazing food and terrific service.

I feel like every time we get together there, we are memorable. I mean, how many women meet to eat, and laugh so hard they cry, and then end up crying for real – only to turn around and start laughing again? And then we have to keep having them bring us more coffee long after our food is done, and nearly two hours later we leave and hug each other like we won’t see each other for years, but you will hear us making plans to get together in about two weeks from then.

What I am trying to say is that we have a great friendship.

So when I say, “We are headed to our oldest’s tonight for dinner, and I am going to bring him all the things he left in the closet from his childhood.” I don’t have to remind her who my oldest son is or the fact that he will be married two years come August.

But she knows enough to say, “Well, that is going to suck for you.”

Because she knows it’s going to straight up hurt my heart.

I know my son isn’t moving back home, nor would I want him to. I am proud of him and the life he is living. But man, oh man, was it ever hard to open up that toy box and see Moo Cow and Giddyup Horse, his two beloved stuffed animals from childhood, staring back at me.

I was happy to be rid of the salt tanned squirrel hide he still had in the closet, but I was overcome with emotions remembering the day he shot it from his “blind” in the sandbox. There was also a pop gun that we got at Cabela’s which seemed like yesterday but really was well over ten or more years ago, that I swear the pop-pop-pop of it still rang in my ears.

I found a photo of his best friend, who is still his best friend, from second grade. This friend is married as well now. But I remember that sweet boy with the glasses in Mrs. Chamberlain’s second grade class just as easily as I recall his bride’s name and how much I love her.

There were pictures of my son smiling with his front teeth missing. There were old hats he had worn over the years. A skull from the wild hog he had gone on a hunting trip for (that I was happy to have leave my house). It was all this, and so much more, and it was all the memories of my son over the years. I was honored to be his mama, and that he ran to me with all of his treasures he had been keeping in his old bedroom closet.

It was harder on me than I had expected it to be.

I told my friend, “There is all this information on how to deal with young children, or how to even get your kids through the hard time of middle school. There are all the books and blogs, and even heartfelt movies, about being a mom of young ones. But there isn’t much about how you survive all that, and love your child to be all grown up and then they move out as they should – and you are left looking at an old worn stuffed animal about to cry your eyes out. No one talks about that.”

There is joy in all the memories that overflowed me. There is joy in the man he has become. There is joy to see what his future holds. But there is also a pain in my mama heart that I can’t quite put into words.

And there is also now a closet that doesn’t have a nasty hog skeleton head staring at me any more, so there is that plus.

Do you have a story to tell about moving out of your parents home or having your child move from your home? Share it with me!