First bird to fly the nest

My daughter has left for university… and I am not alright!

I knew this day was coming. In fact, we’ve been working towards it for years. I’ve encouraged it, supported it, driven to auditions for it, picked her up after disappointments, celebrated the successes and told her endlessly to follow her dreams.

What I hadn’t really prepared myself for was the bit where following those dreams meant leaving me behind.

And now my first baby has flown the nest.

She was always going to perform

Summer has talked about going to performing arts school or university since she was old enough to understand what that meant.

Even as a baby, she danced to absolutely anything resembling music – including the dreadful background music playing in supermarkets. As a toddler, she would put on plays and insist we sit down and watch them. And she has pretty much sung her way through every waking hour of her life.

I used to say:

“If Summer sees a group of people, she doesn't see a crowd. She sees an audience.”

And that really does sum her up.

Summer in her first little pink ballet outfit 

We encouraged that creative side from the beginning and enrolled her in musical theatre when she was very young. Whether she was dancing, singing or acting, she simply loved being on a stage.

And, yes, I know I am ridiculously biased, but she really does shine when she's up there.

From ballet and musical theatre to Oompa Loompas and giant burgers… there has never been a dull moment!

From dressing up to the real stage

As she got older, what could easily have been a childhood hobby never disappeared.

Once school was finished, she went on to complete an Extended Diploma in Performing Arts at college – achieving a Distinction – and then came the slightly terrifying business of finding a university.

There were auditions. Lots of auditions.

There were setbacks and disappointments. There was heartbreak when things didn't go the way she'd hoped. Anyone with a child in performing arts will probably understand just how brutal that process can feel.

But she kept going.

Eventually, she got the news she'd been waiting for: she had a place at Performers in Brighton.

She was beside herself. Even more so when she discovered one of her teachers had appeared in the first series of Skins. Of course, Summer recognised her immediately!

Exactly where she has always wanted to be.

Then came the student-house nightmare…

Unlike many universities, there aren't student halls available for her course, so before she could actually go, we had the small matter of finding somewhere for her to live.

Summer quickly found five other girls from the same course and they decided to house-share.

Then began The Great Brighton Student House Hunt.

I won't bore you with the details. Let's just say it was not fun.

Eventually, though, we found a lovely house. Last month we took down the first load of her belongings, and two weeks ago it was time to move everything else in.

And suddenly this thing we'd talked about for years wasn't something that was going to happen one day.

It was happening.

The goodbye

We had a lovely day together in Brighton before it was finally time to leave her.

Summer is a real family girl, so I knew saying goodbye was going to be hard.

We hugged.

We cried.

And then we left.

Almost immediately, my phone started pinging.

She texted me practically the entire journey home, begging me to turn around and come back for her.

That was fun.

She later told me she'd cried for most of the evening and felt like such a baby because the other girls seemed absolutely fine.

I told her that being upset didn't make her a baby. It simply meant she loved her home and her family and was going to miss us.

You can be excited about the next chapter of your life and desperately miss the chapter you've just left.

Both things can be true.

Summer and her brother when they were little

Finding her feet

Thankfully, things started getting easier.

She spent that first week settling into the house and getting to know Brighton. She discovered that an old friend was also living there while doing a film course, so they met up for drinks.

Her new housemates all seem to have clicked really well too – so far! – and there have already been several nights out.

The main problem was that Summer was bored. Her course hadn't actually started yet, so she had a lot of time to sit around thinking about home.

Her dad suggested she come back for the weekend. It would give her a chance to get used to driving the hour-and-a-half journey by herself and give her something to look forward to.

Fine by me.

Or so I thought.

Apparently, I'd missed her quite a lot

Until that point, I'd actually been doing surprisingly well.

The house was definitely strange without her. There was no singing coming from another room, no random performances and just generally far less Summer noise.

But I was coping.

Then Friday arrived.

I had butterflies all day.

I kept checking Find My Friends to see whether she'd left yet, where she was and how much longer she'd be.

And that's when I realised:

I had missed her far more than I'd allowed myself to admit.

When her car finally pulled up, I hugged her ridiculously hard.

We made a cuppa and caught up on everything that had happened during the week – despite the fact we'd spoken on the phone every single day.

Then something extraordinary happened.

She finished her tea…

…and washed up her cup.

Without being asked.

This child has NEVER done this.

Apparently she'd “gone on autopilot.”

University is already worth every penny.

Over that weekend we laughed, cooked together, played games and talked. I don't think I've ever felt closer to her.

And then she had to leave. Again.

Monday came around far too quickly.

She packed the car ready to head back to Brighton.

I didn't want her to go.

She didn't want to go either.

To make it worse, the following day was her birthday. But it was also university registration day, so staying home wasn't an option.

I think the process of her actually leaving took about an hour. There was always one more hug, one more thing to say, one more reason not to quite get into the car yet.

Eventually, she drove away.

We stood at the front gate and waved until we couldn't see her anymore.

And I felt physically sick.

I watched her little icon moving along the map until I knew she'd arrived safely.

Then I cried.

The house suddenly felt incredibly empty.

Her first birthday away from home

The following day was her birthday and, embarrassingly, I think I cried more than the birthday girl did.

Birthdays are a big deal in our family. We're always together. We make a fuss. And, most importantly, we have the traditional takeaway chosen by the birthday person.

This was the first time she wasn't here for it.

That hurt.

Thankfully, when we video-called her, her housemates had made a fuss of her. The obligatory birthday takeaway was being ordered and they were planning an evening of board games or Jamboree – her favourite game on the Switch.

Her first day at university had gone well too. She was excited about properly getting started and had even recognised some familiar faces from her old theatre group.

She sounded happy.

Which made me happy.

And sad.

And proud.

And relieved.

Basically, motherhood is ridiculous.

Isn't this exactly what we raised them to do?

That's the part I'm struggling to get my head around.

We raise our children to become independent.

We tell them to dream big.

We encourage them to take opportunities, be brave, meet new people and build lives of their own.

Then they actually have the audacity to do it.

Summer has never wavered from her dream of performing on stage or screen. She's followed the plan she made for herself and worked incredibly hard to get there.

She's talented, determined, funny, kind and a genuinely wonderful young woman. She's got beauty and brains to boot, and I couldn't be prouder of her.

Summer with her brother

So why do I feel so empty?

I think that's the bit people don't really talk about.

There is so much advice about preparing your child for university. What to pack. How to budget. How to make friends. How to cope with homesickness.

But perhaps there should be a leaflet for the parents:

“Congratulations! You've successfully raised an independent human being. You may now spend several weeks wandering around your strangely quiet house feeling mildly bereaved.”

Because that's what it feels like.

Of course she's still my daughter. She's only an hour and a half away. She's coming home again. I'll see her all the time.

But something has changed.

A chapter of our family life has ended.

And I'm allowed to miss it.

And then there were three…

My son is now 15 and very much in that teenage phase where spending quality time with his mother isn't particularly high on his list of priorities.

So although technically my nest is only half empty, it can sometimes feel considerably emptier!

But there has been one lovely little surprise.

Summer told me that since she moved away, her brother has either called or messaged her every single day.

Which may be the cutest thing I've ever heard.

He obviously misses her too.

Summer and her brother

I know we'll all adjust.

The house will start to feel normal again. I'll stop tracking every journey she makes. Probably. Her visits home will become something we really look forward to, and I suspect our relationship will only get stronger as she becomes an adult in her own right.

But right now?

I'm giving myself permission to miss the noise.

To miss hearing her singing from another room.

To miss having her wander into the kitchen just because she wants to tell me something.

And even to miss the cups she didn't wash up.

My first bird has flown the nest.

She's exactly where she's worked so hard to be.

And I couldn't be prouder of her.

I'm just not quite alright about it yet.

Although I have identified one possible solution…

Get another dog.

Only joking.

Two is more than enough.

Probably.