Dropping my son off at college will be the worst day of my life.

My husband, who has spent thousands of hours caring for our son, supporting him through childhood rites of passage, and loving him with every molecule of his being, will not be affected at all.

I bitterly regret my decision not to have more children.

I’m not fooling anyone when I talk about how much I love my work.

Pursuing goals I put on hold 18 years ago will only make me depressed when I don’t reach them.

Female midlife reinvention is far-left fantasy.

No amount of travel, adventure, and new experiences can fill the giant void in my soul created when my son left for college, no matter how much I holler, “WOO-HOO! CAN’T WAIT!”

I have so much more time to myself now, but despite how happy and relaxed I look, I hate it.

It’s perfectly okay if I feel sad. But it’s not okay to feel anything else. Sad is acceptable. I MUST FEEL SAD!!!

I must adopt a fur baby to help me cope. So what if I’m highly allergic?

I only ask about other people’s children, not because I’m genuinely interested, but because I’m hoping they’ll ask about my son in return and then I can talk about him even more.

Deep, deep down, I do miss cleaning the bathroom after my son eats Chipotle’s Super Burrito with extra queso.

When I get stuck behind a school bus, I become the physical embodiment of melancholy.

I’m eagerly counting down the days until Thanksgiving when I can do my son’s laundry again.

Every time I see a baby, a rush of dopamine immediately floods my brain.

I know my son is only a freshman in college, but I’m praying he gives me grandchildren as soon as possible.

I text my son every hour to make sure he’s okay. If he doesn’t respond within fifteen minutes, I call the Dean of Student Life. If I can’t get answers, I’m jumping in the car.

My son would be thrilled if I showed up unannounced at his dorm room. What 18-year-old doesn’t love to see his mother in his personal space with zero notice?

A boy’s best friend is his mother—just ask Norman Bates.

A fun night for me is listening to the song Landslide and crying hysterically. When Stevie Nicks sings, “Can I handle the seasons of my life?” I fall into the fetal position and scream a resounding, NOOOOOO!!

My life isn’t complete unless I am taking care of another being—a child, dog, hamster—doesn’t matter what SO LONG AS I’M NURTURING SOMETHING!!!*

*Myself not included


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