There’s a back-of-the-door mirror propped up against the hutch in my dining room, which doubles as my home office.

The mirror is directly across from where I’m sitting, so I’m watching myself type this right now.

As the kids say, this experience is very meta.

I’d call it surreal.

There’s a back-of-the-door mirror propped up against the hutch in my dining room, which doubles as my home office, because it’s waiting to be installed on the back of the door of my youngest daughter’s dorm room.

She moves to college next weekend.

Next to the mirror is a box of cool Etsy home decor items, a comforter, and a laundry basket filled with fluffy new towels—a high school graduation gift from my mom.

Part of me thinks that it will be nice to move this college dorm room stuff out of my dining room, which doubles as my home office.

But a bigger part of me wants it to stay here forever.

And not just because the reflection of me typing in that back-of-the-door mirror is really flattering.

This is my third child to go away to college.

You’d think I’d be better at this by now.

After we dropped my son off at his first dorm five years ago, I sobbed the whole way home.

The next day, I found myself sitting in a grocery store parking lot, too maudlin to go inside and buy snacks for one less family member.

When I spied a dad holding his toddler son’s hand and walking through the lot, I unrolled my window and screamed out, “Cherish this moment!”

The dad picked up his kid and ran inside the store.

I know all the stuff you should know about sending a kid out into the world to live on her own.

This stage has always been the goal.

Kids are supposed to grow up and move away and move on.

And this feeling I’m feeling isn’t grief—it’s nostalgia.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.

I brought my daughter home from the hospital to this house, where the contents of her soon-to-be dorm room are scattered throughout my dining room, which doubles as my home office.

This has been her home for all 18 years of her life.

Next weekend, she’s moving to a new home.

She’ll only live there for about nine months, give or take (uncertainty of the pandemic and all), but the hard truth is that my baby is moving out.

I’m so proud of her and happy for her and excited to see what her future holds.

But if my baby moves out, what does that mean for me?

Don’t get me wrong: I have plenty to do to keep myself occupied.

For most of the day, I work hard at my job, which is now based in my dining room, which doubles as my home office.

I also like to scroll Twitter and binge-watch Nurse Jackie with my baby’s older sister, who is still here studying remotely for the year—at least until she finds an apartment.

I’m not quite ready to go down that particular path.

Most of my identity is wrapped up in being a mom.

I feel as if I were born for the gig.

Yes, I’ll be a mom whether my kids are under my roof or not.

But everyone knows it’s just not the same.

I’m sure it’s going to be a pretty emotional experience to drop my baby off at college next weekend.

I’ll probably cry the whole time we’re installing Command strips to mount that stupid back-of-the-door mirror that doesn’t belong in a dining room.

We’ll hug and kiss her goodbye and call her from the car.

Then when I get home, I’ll set up my computer.

And I’ll write her an email to tell her how much I love her, and I’ll give her access to my Amazon Prime account.

I’ll be sitting at the desk in her childhood bedroom.

Which from now on will double as my home office.