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My oldest son, Sean, came home for a visit last weekend.  He doesn’t get home much anymore, having moved to New York City six months ago to begin his first ”real” job with an accounting firm.  In fact, last weekend was his first trip home since Christmas.  

I suppose that’s the problem with children: they grow up. And leave home.  And live their own lives.    

And I suppose that’s the problem with being a mother of sons:  You miss them, feel displaced when they move out of your house and into their own place.  And as soon as you shut the door of their new apartment, you know—I mean, you really know -- you are no longer a major part of the week-by-week, day-by-day and often, the moment-by-moment of their lives.   

Exactly the way it’s supposed to be. 

After my first son was born, my oldest sister called to congratulate me, and then said this:  “The trouble with having boys is that every significant benchmark in their life is just another good-bye.” 

I thought about her words as a hairline crack made its way across my heart when I walked Sean into kindergarten, his first full day away from me, ever.

“Have a great day, bud,” I said as he ran in, giving me a brief wave, never even turning around.  To this day, he doesn’t know that I sat in my car and cried for 30 minutes. 

I recalled my sister’s words again when I dropped my second son at sleep away camp, helped my third son pack for a mission trip and watched my fourth son walk across the stage at his 5th grade graduation.  

It seems that more than usual, the past nine months have been filled with significant benchmarks in all of my sons’ lives.  Not only did my oldest graduate from college and move to NYC, but my second son, 20, is studying in Europe; my third son, 16, got his driver’s license and my youngest, 14, came downstairs one morning and was suddenly taller than I am.   And just like my youngest’s jump in height, all of these benchmarks seemingly happened overnight. 

As much as I want them to explore the world, learn to drive and yes, grow taller than me, I would be lying if I didn’t confess that a tiny part of me really misses snuggling with them every night or hearing them say, like my son, Tom did when he was 3, “I want to marry you when I grow up.”   

But I also know, in order to maintain a relationship with my sons as they leave home, I have to let them go and be hands-off—no demands on their time, no expectations of their visits home, no messages left on their cell phones that hint, even slightly, that I still need them. 

Recently, when I was having lunch with my friend, Kris, her phone kept ringing and she kept ignoring it. 

“Do you need to get that?” I finally asked.

“Nah, it’s just the girls,” she said, referring to her two oldest daughters and sounding somewhat exasperated. “They call All. The. Time.”  As we continued our lunch, I realized Kris wasn’t exaggerating. 

Her two oldest daughters are grown and living on their own. But more often than not, her daughters’ numbers pop up in Kris’ caller ID five or six times a day – just the girls wanting to discuss the minutia of their day with their mother. 

I can’t even imagine.  And more importantly, I'm not sure I want to. 

Whenever I meet a man whose siblings are all brothers, I ask, “Do you still love your mother?”  They always chuckle and answer, “Of course.”  And their wives always corroborate their stories of maternal love. 

When I ask, “How often do you call her?” most admit, “Not often enough.”   

I’m quickly on my way to becoming that mother whose boys call every so often to just “check in.”   I get it; I even understand it.  It’s been that way since the beginning of time; it’s even mentioned in the Bible and at most marriage ceremonies: A husband will leave his mother and father and cleave to his wife. 

Exactly the way it’s supposed to be.   

My boys will never know how often I look at the pictures of the four of them scattered around my house and long to have them back in my nest, bickering, laughing and asking me what’s for dinner.  The ghosts of their childhoods continuously haunt me, teasing a smile from my lips at every memory.  It is my little secret. 

It’s not as though I want to go back or even have them living in my basement forever. It’s just that the quickness with which they move from wanting to kiss you constantly and tell you everything to not even calling can give a mom whiplash. And just as nothing prepares you for being a mother in the first place, nothing prepares you for saying good-bye in tiny, spread-over-time, painful increments.

So, when my sons do call, I regale them with tales of the robust life I am enjoying with their father, my circle of friends and the challenges of running a small business.  I am happy, busy and content, learning new things, traveling and as far as they know, not missing them much at all.  

Exactly the way it’s supposed to be.   

Diana Keough is the mother of four sons and Co-founder, Editor-in-Chief of ShareWIK.com.  

@ShareWIK Media Group, LLC 2010