I’ve heard about the potential pitfalls of empty nest syndrome.
Optimist that I am, though, I reckoned I had it sussed. When my boys leave home and my fingers are finally prised off their ankles, I had planned to simply shrug off my cloak of control-freak motherdom and get on with doing all the things that I never seem to have time for.
I’d fill my days doing yoga, cooking healthy meals from scratch and catching up on highbrow discussion programmes that expand the intellect.
Please note, I realise that last paragraph comes with a measure of delusion, given that I tried yoga once and pulled a muscle, I am to cooking what Jamie Oliver is to chicken nuggets, and my idea of highbrow telly is a Criminal Minds box set.
But life would go on. I might even turn into one of those suave, chic types who has time to slap on make-up every morning and check she’s not wearing her leggings backwards. Apologies to all those who witnessed my unfortunate gait on the school run last Wednesday.
However, I’ve just had a taste of a child-free existence and I now know that the future is not how I imagined. Apparently, the minute the kids are gone, I’ll regress to being Shari Low, age eighteen and three-quarters.
I’ve said before that both the Low teenagers are sporty types. However, not wishing to come across as Show-Off Shaz, I didn’t mention that they both play basketball for Scotland in their respective age groups.
Yes, check out my chunky ways and embrace the irony that I bred two national athletes – a genetic miracle, since I’m definitely more Murray Mint than Judy Murray. Although, I was wing-attack in our school’s unbeaten netball team of 1983.
Anyway, last weekend, Low the Elder was playing for Scotland against Ireland in Dublin.
Off I went, with another very lovely basketball mum (henceforth known as VLBM) to support the team. Now, what you have to understand is that both myself and VLBM are organisational supremos, who facilitate every requirement of our broods’ packed itineraries. We plan. We research. We implement. And we get everyone where they’re meant to be, when they need to be there, with everything they need to have.
We run ships that are tighter than my Spanx after a weekend on the banoffee pies – until, it would seem, the point when we’re only accountable for our own schedules.
We stepped off the plane at Dublin airport, expecting to be met with prearranged transport, only to realise that I’d forgotten to arrange it. We headed to the hotel, ready to turn in at a sensible hour, only to be waylaid at the bar.
We then sat up gabbing until 3.30 a.m. Note to the G8 Leaders, we sorted out the entire world. I’ll send you a memo with our notes.
Next morning I woke at 9 a.m., jumped out of bed, did four hours’ work, went for a ten-mile jog, before a kale salad lunch.
Okay, I’m lying. I did wake at 9 a.m., but lazed until noon. Mumflu aside, I haven’t stayed in bed until midday since 1986. Our only workout was a walk to a restaurant, and we ate puddings for lunch.
Other than attending the games, where we cheered our boys in a raucous manner, the rest of the weekend had no organisation whatsoever. Just sheer indulgence, laughs and the complete abdication of responsibility.
Empty nest syndrome? Bring it on. Boys, I’ll miss you. But when one teenager leaves, apparently another one takes its place.
Signed,
Shari Low,
Age eighteen and three-quarters.