Stage Four, when you just can't move. You hug him goodbye and leave him to begin his new life. Back home, you don't know what to do. You're useless, friendless, babyless, lifeless.

It's so quiet. There are no doors slamming, no background stereo and Wii noises. There are no to-do lists anymore. Except for paying the bills, of course. (So, do make sure you keep going to work.) There are no phone calls telling you when he'll be home.

You have no friends because you didn’t have time to make them and, besides, you didn’t need them anyway – you had your baby as your best friend for 18 years. The thought of making friends? Well, there's just no way that's going to happen. You might talk and talk and talk and start to cry. People would make excuses to avoid hanging out with you again.

You ask Spawn when he's coming home to visit. He can't possibly; he has too much going on. You'll get a few days at Christmas and/or Thanksgiving, depending on when he might visit his father's side of things. You start to realize that you're just the self-replenishing ATM and a bad, boring ol' reminder of when they were just a kid.People start to ask you what your plans are. “Oh, he’s in college? You’re free! You can do anything you want to. What do you want to do? What are you going to do? Are you going to stay here? Are you going to move? What are you going to do? What? What? What? When? When? When?”

And you smile and say thank you and how nice and I’m not sure yet. You know that the Universe has put you in a wonderful spot to be able to do and afford all you are doing but inside, you're screaming, "I’m dying inside. I can't do anything. I can't even get off the couch." 

Yes, empty nesters make plans, but for post-single moms, it’s different. We suddenly feel emotion we didn't acknowledge for 18 years (emotion leads to the dropping of balls in the air and who could afford that). We’re busting with pride (about what we've accomplished, too), but we're so, so sad. It all boils up higher and higher until we can't control it. We start to cry. A lot, all year, and at the most inopportune times. In meetings. At too-long red lights. 

We're grieving and may not even know, because that involves thoughts turned inward, not something we're accustomed to. But, Spawn, as we knew him or her, is gone. Dead. Really, really expensive, but dead. Thank God for this great new grown-up Spawn, but we have to grieve the loss of the old one first. And people need to give us time. Which leads to their 19th year, or Stage Five of PSM: Rehabilitation.

Symptom  List
Staring into space
The couch
Remote holding cramps
Forgetting to eat (never happened before!)
Pajamas
Not leaving the house all weekend
Crying

Early Warning Signs
Uhh, college applications/payments/packing/dorm purchases/them being determined to leave you

Therapy
A like-minded, supportive community would be a fantastic thing for Stage Four PSMers. See more about this on the Relief/Contact and Ms. PSM pages. But, this is a year you just have to get through. You probably won't have the concentration levels to watch a movie. Cleaning the house, food shopping - you'll only do when you have no choice. Processed foods are bad for you and exactly what you don't need, but it's probably what you'll choose, because it's easy and cheap. Just go with it. You have permission to not think or do this year.

And, surprise!! There is a tangible upside to this year. You won't move much, so you'll save all sorts of money you can just funnel right on to the Spawn!!!

My top pick for Stage Four is this How to be Alone video. I’m also a big fan of meaningless television this year while stuck on the couch. Short little shows with big families or people in full and loving homes or environments. Rather than making me more miserable, it somehow comforted me. I lost myself in their worlds for a while and didn't think about mine.

And, as always, Tom Jones and babies and puppies videos on You Tube.