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Being a mother has given me a pair of children along with a television series (and a spin-off). Initially, as I stepped into this world, it seemed very apparent it constituted a chaotic environment, and ripe for exploitation. Trying to find your tribe while having absolutely nothing in common with other parents, other than babies in the same stage, is very difficult, but also rich in inspiration for humor.

Throughout the years, I would jot down small incidents or observations that made me chuckle: arriving at a children's celebration wearing the same outfit as one of the dads; watching in amazement as a mum asked an usher to increase the temperature inside the theater during a class outing to watch the famous musical; the mum whose advice to her children if they got lost in a crowd was “think like a paedophile” (we used this – after getting approval – in the Halloween episode in the show).

My document of notes evolved into the television series Motherland, and, more recently, the newer series. However, now my little inspos are gone, and I don’t know what to do with myself. They both started uni last week (on different sides across the nation). I was dreading this moment, and as a single mum I find it unbearable. The house has become silent. That room stays tidy always and there are obstacles to stumble over along the corridor. Both gone. Two for none. It's truly heartbreaking.

The Farewell With My Girl

My daughter went initially to go. This was a slick operation. A three-hour drive down the M11 and M25 with her hijacking the playlist and tapping me every time she saw one of those vehicles. We were given a time slot to pick up her access, and between the two of us we carried her stuff up several stairs to her dorm; a 6.5-sq metre room containing essentials: a work surface, chair, bed, cupboards and a board (minus pins). It appeared tidy except for a Cheerio I noticed inside the closet. After I used my full effort to get that bedding onto her small double mattress (I should have checked the size), and removed an awful lot of my clothes and makeup which she had taken out of my room, it was time to say goodbye. The sight of her departing (in my boots) hit me deeply.

The actresses during an earlier season of Motherland.

Next Was My Son’s Turn

Seven days after, it was five hours up the M6 with an overnight stop in a fully booked economy lodging bursting with sentimental households in similar situations. The university grounds were crowded with loaded vehicles containing duvets, air fryers and anxious students desperately trying to hide their nerves. I failed to learn from prior experience from earlier and nearly fainted, straining like giving birth to get more bedding over another similar bed. Additionally omitted those pins. I wished to avoid to cramp my son’s style by lingering, greeting to his neighbours, so we had a solid hug and I succeeded to sneak in a kiss on his cheek without inflicting any discomfort on him whatsoever. He waved, then vanished into his building, jangling his keys as if purchasing his first house.

As I drove off, there were a group of students holding banners representing clubs that said phrases such as BEEP FOR NETBALL and HONK FOR WATERSPORTS, so I honked and they applauded and I cried for most of the five-hour drive home without anyone to pass me a salt and vinegar Disco.

Dealing With The Void and Looking Ahead

When I got home, I had stopped crying. I felt utterly bereft, then when I turned on the corridor lamp and the bulb came loose of the socket and the cat ran in and puked up a small nose with a tail. I took the pet out to the drugstore today to obtain his emergency medication for his lobster allergy. (Although I'm confident he will succeed in steering clear in the coming time). The walk took me past their former elementary school. The noise from the young pupils playing in the playground renewed my tears and I had to dig deep to steady myself as I said his name, collecting his prescription.

I am deeply grateful to my children. Motherland wouldn’t exist absent their influence. In our first holiday episode, Kevin is testing Minecraft (pronounced Mein-Kraft) to see if it’s suitable for his girls. I got most of his dialogue from my son and his experience of having his homestead burned down and animals taken by an acquaintance. I aspire this next chapter of parenting will deliver another wave of stories I may utilize for my work, although it seems the world goes quiet. The mums sign up in craft classes as fathers face their transitions.

Apparently, Gordon Ramsay used his boy's underwear following the drop-off for the first time. I feel sorrow but I think I’m fine not wearing my kids’ underwear. There are community help and therapists focused on this parental condition however I’ve signed up for netball on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I’m going to have a good old sort-out of the house ready for when they’re back during the holidays. Let’s hope they return with ample inspiration!

• The author works as a scribe and television producer.