My nineteen-year-old son has moved out of the house and into his first apartment. Well, most of him has moved out. There is still another van load (at least) lying about in his bedroom. But his bed, his clothes, his razor, some old dishes, some old dishtowels, some pans, a few glasses, a package of toilet paper, a roll of paper towels, and assorted bath towels now reside in the hipper, younger, more urban side of town. (Actually, he moved from a suburb of 16,000 to a city of 800,000.)

I have been bracing myself for this day for...about 19 years. My son is the kind of kid who never wanted to live in suburbia. He was happiest in our last northern California neighborhood, where we were just one-half block off the main drag, and one block from a bus stop that could eventually take him (with help from a ferry boat and a couple of streetcars) right into the hustle and bustle of his favorite place on earth, San Francisco.

My son has been a kid on the go for as long as I can remember. At age thirteen he went to South America with a youth group. With that same group he also went to a Native Reservation in Washington, to a border mission in Southern California, to New Orleans (pre-Katrina), and back to South America. For his Christmas present last year he asked for permission to go back to California by himself, and a little spending money once he got there. (He bought his own ticket and arranged his own places to stay.)

The truth is, he was stifled here in the 'burbs. I'm happy for him that he found a way to be where he is happiest, and I'm not terribly worried about him. (Well, the normal amount of Mom-worried, but not excessively.)

I don't know if he is ready for this or not. How does a parent really know? I know that he is intelligent, resourceful, and motivated to stay out of the 'burbs. I know that to keep him here, in a place that he despises would make all of us very unhappy.

I also know that the moment he says, "Mom, I might need to move back for awhile." I will make a place for him here in an instant.