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Being a mother has given me a pair of children and a TV show (and an offshoot). When I first stepped into that realm, it was quite clear this was a mad world, and perfect for the picking. Attempting to locate your community when you have absolutely nothing shared interests with your fellow parents, other than infants in the same stage, proves challenging, yet also full of inspiration for comedy.

Over the years, I would write down little moments or insights that made me chuckle: arriving at a kids’ party dressed exactly like a father there; observing with surprise as a mum requested a staff member to increase the temperature inside the theater on a school trip to see the famous musical; that parent whose advice for her kids if they got lost in a crowd was “think like a paedophile” (we used this – with permission – in the Halloween episode in the show).

My document of notes evolved into the television series Motherland, and lately, Amandaland. However, now my sources of inspiration are gone, and I don’t know how to proceed with myself. Both of them began university last week (on different sides of the country). I had been fearing this time, and as a single mum I find it too much to handle. Our home is so quiet. The kitchen is permanently clean with no obstacles to stumble over along the corridor. Both departed. Two for none. It’s so sad.

The Farewell With My Girl

My girl went initially to leave. It was a slick operation. Three hours down the M11 and M25 with her hijacking the playlist and tapping me whenever she saw one of those vehicles. We had a time slot to collect her access, and between the two of us we carried her stuff up several stairs to her new home; a 6.5-sq metre room with the basics: a desk, chair, bed, storage and a board (minus pins). It was quite clean apart from a Cheerio I noticed in the wardrobe. Once I applied my full effort to get the single sheet to fit her small double mattress (I should have checked the size), and removed a large quantity of my clothes and makeup that she had pilfered from my bedroom, the moment arrived to say goodbye. The sight of her walking away (in my boots) struck me in the stomach.

Lucy Punch and Anna Maxwell Martin during an earlier season from the series.

Next Was My Son’s Turn

Seven days after, there was a five-hour journey up the M6 with an overnight stop at a reserved economy lodging filled with sentimental households in similar situations. Campus was rammed with packed cars containing duvets, kitchen gadgets and nervous scholars attempting earnestly to hide their nerves. I failed to learn my lesson from the previous week and almost passed out, straining like I was in labour to place another single sheet on a further small double mattress. Additionally omitted drawing pins. I wished to avoid to cramp my son’s style by lingering, saying hello to his neighbours, thus we shared a solid hug and I managed to plant a kiss on his cheek without causing any discomfort to him at all. He gestured, then disappeared into his building, jangling his keys as if purchasing his first house.

As I drove off, there were a group of young adults displaying signs from their various societies stating things like SUPPORT NETBALL AND ENCOURAGE WATERSPORTS, so I sounded the horn and they cheered and I wept for most of the journey back home without anyone to pass me a salt and vinegar Disco.

Coping With The Void and Planning Forward

When I got home, my eyes had dried up. I experienced deep loss, then I switched on the corridor lamp and its light popped out of the socket and the feline entered and regurgitated a tiny snout and a tail. I walked the dog to the pharmacy today to obtain his emergency medication for his lobster allergy. (Though I’m quite sure he will succeed in steering clear for the next few years). That stroll took me past their former elementary school. The sound from the young pupils having fun outside renewed my tears and I struggled to steady myself as I said his name, collecting his prescription.

I am deeply grateful for my kids. Motherland wouldn’t exist without them. In our first holiday episode, Kevin is testing the game (said as Mein-Kraft) to see if it's appropriate for his girls. I got much of the script from my son and his experience with his virtual home burned down and his pigs stolen by his so-called friend. I aspire this next chapter of parenting will provide another wave of stories I may utilize for my work, although it seems things calm down. Mothers enroll for upholstery courses while the dads have their midlife crises.

Apparently, Gordon Ramsay wore his son’s underpants following the drop-off initially. I feel sorrow but I think I'm okay not wearing my kids’ underwear. Exist community help and counsellors that specialise in empty nest syndrome but instead I've enrolled for netball on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I plan to have a good old sort-out of the house preparing for they’re back during the holidays. Let’s hope they bring home ample inspiration!

• Helen Serafinowicz works as a scribe and show creator.