We recently moved to a new home. Back to the beach, only closer to the burbs this time. We chose this particular house because of its unique set-up: it has an area at the back with two bedrooms, a kitchen and meals area, a living room and a bathroom.

After almost 19 years, my boys have separated. They now have a bedroom each. That's not the biggest change, however. The other night, Dylan cooked his first meal in his own kitchen: Black rice with veggies and beef strips. Lemongrass, ginger, spring onions, garlic, mushrooms, baby spinach... What is going on?

What is going on?

Independence.

Suddenly, I have less to do. Less of everything. I'm not allowed to touch anything in "their house" let alone suggest how to do stuff. Google has supplanted me as the go-to for everything from removing blackheads to the best oil to use in stir-frying.

From here it's only a short hop to them moving out and... me scratching my head wondering what happened to the two boys who once depended on me for everything. It's a strange notion, not being needed. It crept up slowly but then one day boom! They became men.

The question in my head of course now is: "Have I done enough?" I got them through the pesky teenage years without a blimp. We cruised through difficulties and dramas and all things that could have impacted our tight little family but didn't. I think of how many things could have gone wrong and shudder... then quickly offer thanks.

Yesterday was also the day I performed the monthly ritual: De-tangling Markie's hair. This involves him kneeling head down over the bath and me holding a hand-nozzle to rinse, shampoo, slather a shit-load of our expensive conditioner through it and then use one of those 70's relics, the 'afro comb', to de-tangle it.

His hair is almost waist-level when wet and somewhat straight. Dry, it is a mass of perfect spirals for a day or so... then it cycles again to a matted mess. He doesn't care. He's not reached (nor maybe ever will) Dylan's 'grooming' penchant.

After the hair came the 'shave'. His sideburns are curly! They also stretch right to his 'mustache'.

Dylan: "Mum, you're doing it wrong! Use coconut oil, not soap! And do this!" He turned the tap on full and the razor upside down to remove the clogged hairs.

Me: "I'm a bloody woman! I shave legs and armpits and some unmentionables. Doing the best I can here!"

Dylan: "Teach a man to fish-"

Me: "And who taught you to bloody fish, huh? ME! Just because you perfected the method doesn't mean you can mouth off!"

Prior to this monthly ritual, Marcus had reached the 'caveman' stage. That's the point where Dylan finally says, "Mum, you gotta fix Markie!" It also is often the precursor to some 'external' event, where they are to be presented publicly as 'part of the family' at some function or other, else, visitors arriving. 

Dylan stood and watched as always, offering up the usual commentary. "He should start looking after it himself, or cut it."

I offered up MY usual retort: "Butt out!"

This because... I once did the same for him. Till he took over. And soon, like him, Markie will take over. And... I want to hold on to these last few remaining rituals. Mum rituals.

My own mother... the day before, bitching as always about my books: "Why can't you keep the good ones and give the rest away?"

Me: "They are ALL good. They're not like clothes!" (This because I did a severe cull of my infamous closet during the move.)

Mum: "What will happen when your father and I are no longer around and you have to move to a smaller place just you and the boys... there will be no room for them!"

ME: "Listen to yourself! You think I will live with my boys? In a year or two, they'll be off- if not sooner. Plenty of space for my books then!"

Mum: Silence. Backing out, head shaking at my very-obvious-to-her denial. Which escaped me.

Me thinking instead: "How does one slow time so that... when the moment arrives to say goodbye as one or the other takes off for places far from me... so it feels like the right time?"

I taught them to be independent from the get-go. I raised them 'free-range'. I instilled the hunger for adventure and knowledge and experiencing life to the fullest.... I am now seeing this come to pass in action. As a bystander, sometimes as a companion.

The other day, Dylan said: "Mum, I'm going to the city later, with Luke. We heard there's a pink door in one of the underground tunnels which leads to a secret and exclusive shopping mall."

Me: "There are some things a mum should not be told. This, is one of them."

"What? You think I'll die down there?"

"Never entered my mind." (This whilst conducting a discrete whiff test for smoke- the 'liar liar pants on fire' type.)

"So what's the problem?"

"No problems for me. You understand though, there's no GPS down there? And no light. Make sure you got those two things covered. Oh... and... I never got around to teaching you self-defence. Damn! All those times I said let's get a punching bag and some gloves..."

"You mean the people living down there? Bit presumptuous of you- to assume them a threat? Plus... we're taking a carton of smokes along."

"Oh, good!" (No! Not good! Blend in, blend in!) "But wouldn't it be better- you know, if you kinda blended in with them? It's not like you're conquering a new land-mass and trying to get the locals on-side by offering gifts? Many others have gone before you..."

... Later that day:

"We decided not to go."

"Why?"

"I did some research. It's more of an... urban myth. No one's actually been there. Or seen the door."

"Damn!"

"Ye."

I'd manipulated my kid. Didn't sit well with me.

"Dylan... I-"

"No, I know what you did. You're my mum, of course you're gonna try protect me. That's not why I changed my mind."

"Why then?"

"Independence, I get. I mean I told you, I didn't ask you if I could go, right? So that's covered. But it was the risk/reward ratio. The numbers didn't stack up. Honestly? I'd rather work on my tan."

Just like that. The numbers didn't stack up for him. I rejoiced.

It wasn't so much the 'telling not asking' which defined his independence from me. It was his methodology: taking into account my maternal fears but also judging the thing critically- devoid of emotions, including my own.

He tests me, of course. His brother, more steadfast and less 'pliable', feels no such need. He is still comfortable with his mum doing some things and won't be swayed by anything Dylan says. I love this about them. I love that they are growing their separate 'identities' without conflict between them. And at their own pace.

Dylan tests me from time to time because his innate inquisitiveness clashes with his still trying to 'hold on' to his childhood. (He'd never admit it- no way.) 

But take the other day: He and I had gone on a long drive- ostensibly so he can take some pics with his even newer, even 'older' camera ("Older than you mum, can you believe it?"). I drove him through the Black Spur- a fantastical forest that can hardly be described- it's one of those places one has to be in to fully appreciate.

As we exited it, there it was, in a clearing blanketed by lawn and wild chamomile- the pub of my youth. By this, I mean I was instantly taken back to another time, over thirty years ago, when on a whim, I'd grabbed one of my waiters (I had my restaurant at the time) and rather than the usual nightclub or disco of the days, we'd headed out determined to drive somewhere unknown. Thus, I'd discovered the Black Spur and... this pub.

It had been winter then and the road had been icy, patches of 'black' ice making the night journey more of a nail-biting experience; the pub of now, framed by the colours of Spring and some very obvious "makeovers" bore little resemblance to that small, smoke-filled, fireplace-glowing space I'd once sat in and enjoyed a 'grateful to have made it out those winding narrow roads alive' scotch to the accompaniment of the rowdy 'locals'.

The locals were still there however. The same family- now three generations in attendance (some little ones running about) greeted us and... Dylan got to experience what I had, back then: True Aussie hospitality.

We sat outside. He bought a beer. Bought me a scotch. Then... he reached for my packet of ciggies and lit one. I watched. I watched my child take hold of this insidious thing, and suck on it. No, he doesn't "smoke". It was a gesture. I understood. Everyone around us (Was Melbourne Cup, the "Race that stops a Nation" and a public holiday)  was therefore drunk and yes, smoking.

Jokes were flying. One dude had a Viking helmet on. Another, a top-hat; which he proceeded to give to Dylan saying 'If anyone asks if you can pull a rabbit out of that hat tell them "No, but I can pull a hair out of my ass for you?"' We laughed and laughed. My son and I.

There was NO room in those moments for me to say "Don't bloody put that thing in your mouth!" And I couldn't anyway- my child is an adult. Had I carried on and on... the first time I saw him take a couple of puffs back at our last BBQ- he'd be buying his own packs now. By me keeping 'mum'... his 'test' had failed. (Won't admit that either!)

But as I sat across from him... I saw the man: Making choices. Taking control. Assuming the air of one confident in the 'adult world'; moving with ease within it. 

It does ache. Pride clashes with that need to hold him - to hold on to both of them - long as I can.

But... true independence is what I had wished for them on their arrival. To see it materialise- nothing... nothing can supersede it. Nothing.