Well, moving day has come and gone. On Friday, the day on which the sun seemed to be no more than 43.5 yards from the Earth's surface, we moved Carson into his new home away from home. It was a furnished apartment and, with Carson being a man capable of toting his own stuff, it was just the two of us setting out for the task at hand, while Davis stayed back to work.

All week long, Carson was busy getting some last minute things done and we'd packed all of his stuff and, in the process, spent a lot of time with each other. During all the activity, while I'd quietly mull over the significance of these last moments before things would change, God, in all of His mercy, allowed Carson to use his free will to become a little mouthy. You know that kind of smart mouth-iness that makes you just want to pinch their little heads off like a crawfish. Not being the norm for him, I knew it was just his nerves getting the best of him, but, whatever it was, it certainly helped his mother to wake up, that day, with an exuberant "let's get you off to school" attitude. Not one tear has been shed. The Bible wasn't kidding when it said the Man upstairs can use all things for our good.

I knew this was going to be a different kind of move in day. Unlike any move in day with Blair. The last thing you want to project as the mother of a son is any hint of a Mama's boy syndrome, so I knew I'd just take my cues from him and the other moms who'd be there. I mean, I didn't want to cross any mothering lines that the other mothers weren't crossing, you know? But, we all seemed to be on the same page in the playbook. Being how I am about restrooms and such, though, I couldn't help but Lysol all his bathroom surfaces and wipe down the leatherish couches, on which only the good Lord knows what had transpired. One of the other mothers immediately jumped in to help; thankful that I'd made the first antiseptic move.   

We worked to get his bed made. His flag hung. A picture of his Ruby on the bedside table. Lamps plugged in. His room darkening curtains up and steamed. A poster affixed to the wall. His desk stocked. Shower curtain hung. And the hoard of clothes put in his closet. We got done and his room looked nice, but not too nice, which is always the fine line you have to walk when dealing with sons. I could tell he was proud of it, but my estimation is that the pillow shams will find themselves in the apartment dumpster before week's end. As a recovering girl mom, though, I had to, at least, be able to say that they were there when I left.
I've been looking at move in day pictures for a week now. The girls' rooms have all been adorned with inspirational canvases with uplifting words like "Dream", "She believed she could so she did", and "You got this". Not to be outdone, Carson penned his own encouragement to himself on his white board. While not as flowery or poetic, it did encapsulate the overall goal toward which he shall strive, this, his sophomore year.
I wanted to get a picture of the 4 roomies before I headed home. One was gone, so I got the remaining unexcited three to gather up for a picture. I've been photographing theses 3 together since kindergarten, so, even though I may have put my toe on top of the mother of college son line here, at least, this group has been conditioned to expect photography from me. They lined up, side by side, ever so careful not to touch one another....again, unlike all the girls I'd seen hugged up together under their inspirational signs. It was only after my coercing that they gathered in close enough to even fit within the camera's frame.
So, having done everything I was needed for, Carson walked me to my car. I hugged him and he leaned in to kiss me on my cheek. It was the kind he used to give me when he was little. In its silent and precious way, it expressed his apology, love, gratitude, happiness, sadness, and all the deeper sentimental stuff for which there are no words. I got in my broiling car and pulled out of the parking space. I could see my boy in the rearview mirror walking away from me toward his independence. Just like he's supposed to. And, as his mom, whatever I'd done right or wrong. Whatever regrets I had or things I wished I could do again. Whatever victories we'd won or lessons we'd learned. Whatever I taught him or forgot to teach him. I left it all there with him. To sort it all out for himself and move forward to the person he decides to be. Through all the parenting years of nailing it, sometimes, and screwing it up, others, one thing I left him with for sure was the confident knowledge that his Mama loves him. He will never, ever be left to wonder about that.  
       
So, until Ruby goes off to obedience school, we'll have her here, at least. I suppose I'll immerse myself in my painting....by number, that is. I finished my first masterpiece and, even though I had it done in time to fill an empty wall in Carson's new place, he chose a Psych poster over it. Psshh.

I bought a cookbook for two upon Blair's recommendation. While Davis can eat leftovers right up until the time maggots appear, I'm a bit more finicky about that. Without the boy with the hollow leg living here, hopefully, this will help.
 I have discovered a side of the empty nest that no one ever talks about, though. Nobody prepares you for it, really. It's one of those things that you don't even consider until you get back home from dropping off the last child. Who's going to get milk for us at 9:00 at night? Davis and I are left to ponder these things in our quieter, albeit neater house.