A few Fridays ago, everyone came home from a long week, tired, grumpy, eager to get to their own corners. Everyone, except E who had a student council obligation to fulfill, so I quickly grabbed her a takeout snack to carry her through the evening, dropped her off, and headed home for what I hoped would be a few quiet hours to myself.

No sooner did I pull into the driveway when my phone rang. It was E. She had a migraine coming on and needed to be picked up. I quickly did the mental math. I’d been planning to take the dogs out for a short walk, relax, and then take them for a longer walk right before bedtime, which would also enable me to sleep in a little longer on Saturday morning. Until I got back, they would be ready to go for a longer walk, but it wouldn’t be quite so late, and they’d need to be up early. Sigh. So much for my plan to relax. These are the breaks of being the only parent.

At least I’d have everyone home and under one roof earlier, which always alleviates a little stress in my book, although I wasn’t quite sure what tending E would require. Hopefully, she’d caught it early enough that she could just go right to bed and the quiet darkness would be all she needed. No sooner did I get out of the driveway, then the phone rang again. I saw that it was A calling. I debated answering it. I suspected that he would ask me to stop at the store on the way home to grab some snacks. While I really didn’t want to take any more detours, there was always the chance that it could be something more serious.

“What?” I snapped into the phone. “Mom. I got in. They accepted me.” I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. I knew all the dates that his top choice schools were sending their decisions, and a miserable Friday in February was definitely not one of those dates. It was clear this was a very important conversation, and I was not equipped to comprehend it. I pulled over to the side of the road and he started reading the letter. Sure enough, his number one choice, the one that he thought was the longest shot, wanted him. And, they wanted him enough to tell him early.

Me, being the cynical jerk that I am, immediately thought that there had to be a glitch in the system, or worse, some exceptionally cruel spam plot had been hatched. Which was met with a “thanks for believing in me, Mom” accusation. Which I deserved. He assured me that he had logged into his portal and everything was legitimate. Although they fight like cats and dogs, I have to say, A’s impending good news might have been the quickest migraine cure E every had! She even suggested that we detour to pick up a celebration cake and a bottle of sparkling cider.

I will never forget walking through the door that night. When I left, A had been slumped on the couch, halfheartedly playing a video game, trying to cast off the stress of the week and decompress. When I came home, he was positively vibrating with excitement and anticipation. I could tell every single positive emotion was competing to escape from his body. All I could think was, “he is so ready, he would go there tomorrow if he could.”

Therein lies the Catch-22 of this whole application process. I wanted to support him in every way that I could, from taking him to visit schools to proofreading his essays to remembering the semi-obscure award that he earned a year or two ago that needed to be added to his resume. At the same time, the more I encouraged and helped him to succeed in this process, the more I was aiding and abetting him moving forward with his life without me.

Isn’t that what we want for our children, though, for them to be ready and able to move on without us? I remember the long car rides with my dad back and forth to Boston. Most of the ones on the way there were him encouraging me to take my education beyond the walls of the university, to get out and see the sights, meet new people, and try new things. The rides home were full of demands for reports on what I’d learned, who I’d met, what I’d done. At the time, I thought maybe he was doing a little reliving of his own college days, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that he was trying to suss out whether I was truly “living.” He did a great job of pushing me out of the nest, but making sure that I knew the nest was always there when I needed it.

Now, I’m at that point with A. It’s a little tricker for A, because we all know that part of our nest is gone and never coming back. We’re all aware that things can change quickly, and no one can make promises of “I’ll always be here.” Seeing A’s anticipation and excitement, though, I think I can understand how my Dad managed to do it. Just like I was at the time, A is ready to take the next steps and start working toward his ultimate goals. The pieces of his puzzle clicked in a big way, and now that the big picture is taking shape, there’s no way I could even think of standing in his way or trying to hold him back.

This is going to be a big change for him, and for our family. Luckily, it’s been a little more gradual and we’ve all had time to adjust to it, unlike the last rug that got pulled out from under us. While it is A’s big moment, I have noticed that it has also showed his siblings that life can move forward and change for the better. It’s also a chance for them to have a little more space in their shared bathroom.

Liz Pinkey’s column appears weekly in the Times News