A version of this was one of the first things I posted on this blog, five years ago to the day. Eventually it became a chapter in my book CHOPSY ( did I say I wrote a book? I’m sure I’ve not mentioned it for ages.) I thought I’d share the book version, the tail end to the recent posts on kids leaving home.

I felt bad.

The trouble was I should’ve felt much worse.
Which was why I felt bad.

Everyone told me I was going to find it hard, the last of my ducklings leaving home.

And I mean, it was a bit.

I’m not a monster, I shed tears. But mostly, I was thrilled.

Which is apparently bad.

Friends messaged, worried I might be sat sobbing over odd socks or sitting in a bedroom, holding a discarded pillow, wistfully reminiscing.

‘Hang on in there,’ they said.
‘Don’t cry alone.’
‘Your poor empty nest! How will you cope?’

Well, it turns out I can cope just fine. It’s not that I don’t love my kids. But by the time the last one tottered off, I’d been parenting for nearly thirty years. I’d never been a grown-up without kids. And I was ready for an empty house and cereal boxes that actually contained cereal. Ready for eating what I liked, not setting a good example. Living instead on Opal Fruits and Eccles cakes if that’s what I wanted.

There was no wailing about empty wombs or spare bedrooms. As soon as my home was finally child free, I was ready to throw up the barricades and demand ID on the door, declaring if you’re under twenty-five, you’re not coming in.

For the first time in my adult life, I could do just what I wanted – which, it turned out, isn’t very big or even very wild. I read, I wrote, I studied. I walked the dog and
ate salad for tea. Mostly I rested. All that energy spent raising a family could now be spent raising me.

OK, I may have expressed my joy a little too freely.

Day two at university, the daughter texted: ‘RUDE!’
The photos of me running through the house shouting ‘FREEDOM!’ with blue face paint and a kilt might have been a bit much.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

You might say I was hysterical.

I’d say, look at all the bloody space. And time!

My days, no longer bookended by the school day, didn’t end come 3.30 p.m. The clocks ran on and there was no big rush, no putting down what I’d started to work around someone else’s day. I’d wander from room to room (in my tiny house that takes less than five minutes but let’s stick with the image), hand lingering on random pieces of furniture, and all I could think was the buggers have nicked loads of my stuff.

And they’d left so much crap.

The attic is full of Star Wars toys – a vintage Ewok village, Death Stars and X-wings. Then there’s the Thunderbirds’ Tracy Island and
a life-size cutout of Jean-Luc Picard. There are boxes of videos – VIDEOS! – that they watched when they were kids.

They cried ‘Nooo!’ when I mentioned getting rid.

We don’t own a video player and even if we did, I don’t think I’d be watching Fireman Sam or Funny Bones.

My nest was meant to be empty – did you not get the memo, people? How am I meant to swan about when there is all this shit in the way?

My kids just laughed, too busy, too fabulous, too far away to care.

What am I meant to do?

This is meant to be my time, and not spent living in the debris of someone else’s life.

From the moment your child is born, being a parent means becoming a B-list player in someone else’s movie. No more fancy frocks and heels for you, your life revolves around the star. Do they need a drink, or their brow mopping, or a clean pair of pants?

Never mind that you could have been a contender, by the end of it all, you’re
not even in the bloody entourage, relegated to a walk-on role, as long as you don’t make eye contact and you’re not too embarrassing.

Now that they’ve all gone, it’s my time to branch out.

Start my own spin-off, have a mini-series.

Sod it, go full box office. Become my own star.

CHOPSY The Resistance Tales of a Working Class Woman is out now at all good bookshops