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Motherhood has given me a pair of children and a TV show (and an offshoot). Initially, as I stepped into this world, it was quite clear it constituted a mad world, and perfect for exploitation. Trying to find your tribe when you have very little in common with your fellow tribespeople, other than babies of the same age, proves challenging, but also rich in inspiration for humor.

Throughout the years, I'd write down little moments or observations that brought a smile: arriving at a kids’ party dressed exactly like a father there; observing with surprise as a mum asked a staff member to turn the heating up inside the theater on a school trip to watch the famous musical; the mum who suggested for her kids should they become separated in a crowd involved "thinking like a predator" (this was incorporated – after getting approval – during the spooky special in the show).

My document of observations evolved into the television series Motherland, and, more recently, Amandaland. But now my little inspos are gone, and I don’t know what to do on my own. Both of them started uni last week (at opposite ends across the nation). I was dreading this time, and as a single mum I find it too much to handle. Our home is so quiet. That room stays tidy always and there are obstacles to stumble over along the corridor. Both gone. Two leaving, none remaining. It’s so sad.

Saying Goodbye to My Daughter

My daughter was the first to go. This was a slick operation. Three hours down the M11 and M25 with her hijacking the music and tapping me whenever she spotted a yellow car. We had an appointment to pick up her access, and together we lugged her stuff up several stairs to her new home; a compact space containing essentials: a desk, seat, sleeping area, cupboards and a board (no drawing pins). It was quite clean except for a cereal piece I found in the wardrobe. After I used all my God-given strength to fit the single sheet onto her small double mattress (I ought to have verified the size), and unpacked an awful lot of my clothes and cosmetics which she had taken out of my room, it was time for farewells. The sight of her departing (in my boots) struck me deeply.

The actresses during an earlier season from the series.

Next Was My Boy's Departure

A week later, it was a five-hour journey up the M6 including a night's stay at a reserved budget hotel filled with emotional families in similar situations. Campus was rammed with packed cars containing duvets, air fryers and anxious students desperately trying to mask their anxiety. I hadn’t learned my lesson from the previous week and almost passed out, exerting as if I was in labour to get another single sheet on a further small double mattress. Also forgot drawing pins. I didn’t want restricting my son’s style by lingering, greeting to his neighbours, thus we shared a firm embrace and I managed to sneak in a kiss on his cheek without inflicting any embarrassment to him at all. He waved, then vanished into his building, rattling his keys as if purchasing his initial home.

As I drove off, I saw a bunch of young adults holding banners representing clubs stating things like SUPPORT NETBALL and HONK FOR WATERSPORTS, so I honked and they applauded and I wept for most of the five-hour drive to my house without anyone to pass me that snack.

Coping With the Emptiness and Looking Ahead

Upon returning, my eyes had dried up. I experienced deep loss, then I switched on the hall light and the bulb came loose of the socket and the feline entered and puked up a tiny snout and a tail. I walked the dog to the pharmacy today to obtain his emergency medication due to his shellfish reaction. (Though I’m quite sure he will succeed in steering clear for the next few years). The walk took me past their former elementary school. The sound of the little children playing in the playground started me off again and I had to dig deep to control my lip wobble while stating my son’s name, getting his medicine.

I owe so much to my children. The show wouldn't be without them. During the initial holiday episode, Kevin is testing Minecraft (said as Mein-Kraft) to determine whether it’s suitable for his daughters. I got much of the script from my son and his encounters with his virtual home burned down and his pigs stolen by his so-called friend. I aspire this next chapter of parenting will provide another wave of stories I can use in my writing, even though things calm down. The mums sign up in craft classes while the dads face their transitions.

Apparently, Gordon Ramsay used his boy's underwear following the drop-off for the first time. I feel sorrow yet I believe I’m fine not wearing their undergarments. There are community help and counsellors focused on empty nest syndrome however I’ve signed up for netball those weekdays and I plan to tidy thoroughly our home preparing for they’re back for Christmas. I trust they return with ample inspiration!

• The author works as a scribe and television producer.