“I don’t have malaria” is the subject line of an email sent to me a few days ago from my 21 year-old daughter and social entrepreneur, who has spent the summer months in Kenya establishing a start-up company in a small town called Nyahururu. “Are you sure?” I cross-examine her. “ I’m good mom, don’t worry,” she giggles while probably rolling her eyes to her friends heard chatting in the background.

It’s only 8 am, but I pry open some champagne and drink a glass or two, relieved that she’s about to leave Kenya, and thrilled that she will be joining her siblings in Amsterdam for a much needed visit before they all head off on their own, engaging in rewarding but separate lives.

Later that night I slip in more motherly advice, this time targeting my eldest child. “Don’t eat too many hash brownies,” I warn my 23-year-old daughter, who’s chatting with me from La Guardia airport in New York, where she lives and works. “People have been known to have some horrible reactions.” She breaks out in a roar and then softly says, “Gotto go board the plane…love you!”

A few hours later, I receive a text from my 18-year-old son, who has just finished a backpacking trip with his girlfriend. “I’m here with my girlies!” referring to his big sisters who he still loves to cuddle up with despite being a foot taller than them.

Shaking off the parental anxiety from the weeks before, I finally feel like everyone is where they should be and go for a jog. In the middle of the gravel road I see a burnt orange maple leaf curled at the sides just lying there like I’m supposed to notice it.

I pick it up, noting sprinkles of yellow and green speckles all mixed together. A gust of wind blows my ponytail high above my head. I know what this means.

Typically, when the long weekend in August rolls in, a feeling of dread sinks into the middle of my stomach in anticipation of that “To Do” list I need to start thinking about for my kids’ school year. This makes me unbearably cranky.

Sharpening pencils, stuffing backpacks, labeling Duo-Tangs, sorting socks with holes, and throwing out old toothbrushes and pillows consume my thoughts.

But this year will be different. As my youngest child heads off to university far away, I will gather those heaps of unused school supplies from their desk drawers and donate them to other children who need them.

I’ll create a great BIG “to do” list for me, one that I hope will keep me focused and sane. I will sign up for yoga and meditation classes like the many other empty nesters exploring their unsolicited freedom. I may even become a vegan, learn how to belly dance or become a porn star.

Perhaps I’ll sell my house, go on a silent retreat, feed the homeless, build a shelter, write a novel, or go back to school. The list could be endless. But first, I will have a good cry.