I’ve spent the last two weeks packing up things I no longer need, culling the surfeit of possessions I’ve acquired during my adult years with a ruthlessness I’ve not been able to bring to bear before. I am cleaning house.

It’s not all for donation. I’m biting the bullet and having a garage sale. I’ve got the date set – the weekend of September 15th – and some people lined up to help me.

Two is occasionally a good thing, in case you want lunch or a bathroom break.

I’ve organized my garage into Chez WalMichelle, I’ve printed up posters, and I’ve big plans for a Facebook Marketplace push, though not until the Monday before.

So much in life is about timing.

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I love a good clean and organize, and I’ve been selling some of the things online. The most recent is a roll of vapour barrier. I used what I needed in my en suite renovation, and this isn’t the kind of thing you save for a rainy day. I looked up the price online because I’ve got a tendency to underestimate it, especially when I want something gone.

It was a good call. New is sixty, and twenty bucks is twenty bucks.

The ads from my last search popped up, as they do, as I was trying to find out what the roll costs new. Rental moving vans and boxes. Not something I’ve been looking at, but a network is a network.

My son has also been cleaning and culling his stuff. It’s not an August bug we both share – his version also includes packing. He’s moving out. He’s leaving home, and moving into a townhouse with his girlfriend. I’d hoped perhaps the challenges of finding housing would continue, but alas, a place was found they agreed upon.

It’s a lovely townhouse. Blue siding and white trim on the outside, and white shiplap and light floors across the three stories – they build narrow and tall for density these days. It’s got a nice kitchen, an open-concept living space, and good bedrooms with the laundry on the same floor. It also has a tiny bit of green grass in the front, just enough to sit on with friends on a summer evening.

It’s a pretty great space.

It’s the last step into adulthood, the last one away from being my baby boy.

He hasn’t been a baby for some time – he’s twenty-three – but he’s my baby. Kids grow up and build their own adult lives. They separate from us and build their own. It’s a good and necessary step, and I hate it. I wonder if my mom cried each time? I’ll probably do an online search of eye depuffing techniques today. I do have a mask that lives in the freezer. That came from Amazon too.

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He didn’t sleep here last night – Monday night was the last time this was his full-time home.

Who is cutting so many onions?

They tell you to pay attention when you have a baby. Pay attention to what’s going on. You hear it from parents with grown children when yours are little because it’s true – children grow up quickly. You never know when a thing will be the last time. The last time they need you to snuggle them to sleep. The last time they let you hold their hand. The last time you get to walk them to the door. The last time you drive them somewhere before they get their own car. The last time you give them a curfew or schedule.

The last time you share a roof as a permanent living arrangement.

I regret not being a perfect parent. I was going to be, but it didn’t work out. What with “perfect” being an impossibility and all. The mistakes I made are ever in my thoughts these days, along with the things I could and should’ve done differently.

However, despite my imperfections and missteps, my son is a kind, funny, smart, musical, talented, sensitive, and practical human being with good boundaries. He’s a miracle and he amazes me every day.

I need to do better when it comes to communicating that.

Perhaps a T-shirt?

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It has been the privilege of my life to help raise him to adulthood. It does take a village. He’s still my son, but he’s now fully fledged. How and how often we interact now will change – I can’t count on seeing him every day anymore.

You give them roots and wings, but not clipping the latter is a challenge.

(I make it sound as though he moved across the continent as opposed to across town, but distance doesn’t alter the fundamental shifts happening. Plus, change is hard.)

Uncertainty is not a favourite of people with anxiety. I suspect it’s not a favourite of people without anxiety though I’ll bet you a shiny nickel that we do it differently. A changed situation has new rules, and I don’t know them. Not knowing the rules – I still struggle with the one true way concept when it comes to myself – is a hard space for me.

What if I do it wrong?

How often can I text him? Can I text every day? Multiple times a day? Does it count if it’s funny? How much space do you give children when they move out? Should I call instead of text? Is that more meaningful? How often do I call?

The ease of connectivity that is the smartphone often seems to make the whole business more challenging. Before their advent, family catchup calls were a weekly thing. What else are you going to do on a Sunday evening when the long-distance rates are lower?

I can’t stalk his socials – he doesn’t really have any, and I don’t think parents should spend too much time on their kids’s socials anyway, even those of their adult kids. It robs them of a bit of independence if you’re always hanging out and commenting. If you’re always there.

But, I digress.

We grow and we change. That’s how we do life. That doesn’t make it easy. That doesn’t mean there aren’t complicated emotions attached. That’s not to say I didn’t spend most of last night cursing the system. I plan to write a strongly-worded letter sometime in the future.

I should also look up tissues, and see if there are any on sale nearby. Apropos of nothing.

Change is hard even when it’s a good thing. Emotions are complicated things. There’s love for the amazing man that is my son. There’s pride in his accomplishments and success. There’s irritation that I wasn’t able to keep him my little boy forever.

There’s also fear, though not for my son. This marks the first time I’ve lived alone since I was twenty-seven. Close to a quarter of a century of living with other people just came to an end. There’s an oddness to making this change. There’s also a sense of satisfaction.

We made it.

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