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Motherhood has given me a pair of children and a TV show (and a spin-off). Initially, as I entered this world, it was quite clear this was a mad world, and ripe for the picking. Trying to find your tribe when you have absolutely nothing in common with other parents, except for infants of the same age, is very difficult, but also rich in ideas for comedy.

Throughout the years, I would jot down small incidents or observations that made me chuckle: arriving at a kids’ party dressed exactly like one of the dads; observing with surprise when a mother requested an usher to turn the heating up inside the theater during a class outing to see the famous musical; the mum whose advice to her children if they got lost amidst people was “think like a paedophile” (we used this – after getting approval – during the spooky special of Motherland).

My document of observations evolved into the TV programme Motherland, and lately, Amandaland. However, now my little inspos have left, and I'm unsure what to do with myself. They both started uni last week (at opposite ends across the nation). I had been fearing this moment, and as a single mum I find it too much to handle. Our home has become silent. The kitchen is permanently clean with no trip hazards along the corridor. Both gone. Two for none. It's truly heartbreaking.

Saying Goodbye With My Girl

My girl was the first to go. This was an efficient process. A three-hour drive down the M11 and M25 as she took over the music and whacking me every time she spotted a yellow car. We had an appointment to pick up her access, and between the two of us we lugged her belongings up several stairs to her new home; a 6.5-sq metre room containing essentials: a desk, seat, bed, storage and a board (minus pins). It appeared tidy except for a cereal piece I noticed in the wardrobe. After I used my full effort to fit that bedding onto her small double mattress (I should have checked this), and unpacked a large quantity of my garments and makeup that she had pilfered from my bedroom, the moment arrived for farewells. The image of her walking away (wearing my footwear) struck me in the stomach.

Lucy Punch and Anna Maxwell Martin in a 2017 episode of Motherland.

Then Came My Boy's Departure

A week later, there was a five-hour journey up the M6 including a night's stay at a reserved economy lodging filled with emotional families in similar situations. The university grounds were crowded with loaded vehicles containing bedding, kitchen gadgets and nervous scholars desperately trying to mask their anxiety. I failed to learn my lesson from the previous week and nearly fainted, exerting as if I was in labour to place another single sheet on a further similar bed. Also forgot those pins. I didn’t want restricting his independence by lingering, saying hello those nearby, so we had a firm embrace and I succeeded to sneak in a kiss on his cheek without inflicting any discomfort on him whatsoever. He waved, then disappeared into his building, rattling his keys as if purchasing his initial home.

As I drove off, there were a group of students displaying signs representing clubs that said things like BEEP FOR NETBALL AND ENCOURAGE WATERSPORTS, so I honked and they applauded and I wept during much of the five-hour drive home without anyone to pass me a salt and vinegar Disco.

Dealing With the Emptiness and Looking Ahead

Upon returning, my eyes had dried up. I felt utterly bereft, then when I turned on the hall light and the bulb came loose from the fixture and the feline entered and puked up a small nose and a tail. I took the pet out to the drugstore today to collect my son’s backup EpiPen due to his shellfish reaction. (Though I’m quite sure he’ll manage to avoid lobster for the next few years). The walk took me past their former elementary school. The noise from the young pupils playing in the playground started me off again and I struggled to steady myself while stating his name, collecting his prescription.

I owe so much to my children. The show wouldn't be without them. During the initial holiday episode, a character tries Minecraft (pronounced Mein-Kraft) to determine whether it’s suitable for his girls. I derived most of his dialogue from my son and his experience of having his homestead burned down and his pigs stolen by his so-called friend. I aspire this new phase as a parent will provide further instances of anecdotes I can use in my writing, although it seems things calm down. Mothers enroll for upholstery courses while the dads have their midlife crises.

Reportedly, Gordon Ramsay used his boy's underwear following the drop-off initially. I feel sorrow but I think I’m fine not wearing my kids’ underwear. Exist community help and therapists that specialise in 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 our home preparing for their return during the holidays. Let’s hope they bring home ample inspiration!

• Helen Serafinowicz works as a scribe and television producer.