SOME OF YOU HAVE, OR SOON WILL HAVE, sent your child(ren) off to live, work, study and play at college — not merely commuting to, say, a nearby absolutely fabulous community college from home. No, no. Some of us are saying “bye-bye” to our kid(s), and —oh, I don’t know — also saying “hi-hi” to the remaining member(s) of the family. (And yes, I labored sheepishly over that introductory paragraph.)

To be more specific, and in the name of better English: Suzanne and I recently helped send our twins off to two colleges, each of which was their first-choice school: John up north to Sacramento State, and Anjuli down to Pitzer College in Southern California. Our twins make up half the family, and so the “empty nest” came abruptly for us.

We’re not recovering, we’re coping. I’m somewhat relieved, excited, even happy for them; and then ready to strangle the next person who gives some glib, dopey, cornpone happy-smile nugget like: “Oh, you’ll see — you’ll like the quiet all around you now.”

Hmm … I do kinda like the quiet. Maybe. Sorta. More or less. Menza-menz. I tend to be decisive about such things.

For all its irreplaceable joys and triumphs and one-of-a-kind moments, raising kids can be one tough journey — as we ironically raise them to individuate, to go out on their own, to “launch.” But all along, our children’s growth stages are bold, clear bookmarks both for them and for family gatherings: “I can’t believe they’ve grown so! Next stop is college, eh?” Little observation or support is made of the parents’ milestones — aka aging-in-place — other than the rueful relative who exclaims to a full crowd: “Jeez, Robbie: Ya look like Uncle Horace just before he slipped and croaked.”

Anyway, consider us “in recovery.” One day atta time, brother. Look lovingly at life; be grateful and have gratitude for the gratuities and felicitous grateful-licities of life. Or something like that.

Not sure if there’s any “cure” exactly to this state of mind, heart and tear glands: It’s more like an autoimmune condition — you just deal with the sucker and expect half-useful diagnoses and prognoses. Doctors and therapists don’t guarantee cures, just paid receipts. They allow me visitors on Friday afternoons.

So for we “empty nesters,” here are some don’ts. Send me your “do’s,” I’ll try to print ’em.

• Certain musical numbers are totally off limits, unless you want to stain that shirt or blouse with a creek fulla tears: “Turn Around,” Sinatra’s “When I Was 17,” Bill Evans’ “Waltz for Debby,” and of course, “Sunrise, Sunset” from “Fiddler” (you don’t have to be Jewish to get inconsolably verklempt).

• It may be best not to visit the empty bedrooms too much, or at all. Maybe once just to remove the pothos plant. You’ll look at the desk and the chest of drawers, the sports trophies, the photos and the stuffed animals and the “Imagine” poster and seashell figures, and the bed and its spread and … well … “I told you not to play that blasted ‘Sunrise, Sunset’ song …”

• So you go food shopping because that was one of your main manly family roles for 18 years, and you find yourself putting back all the “special” foods and such that you always bought for each of the kids. In the cart, back outta the cart. Because, like, you don’t need ’em anymore this week. Or next week. And you and your spouse are older now and starting to eat more picnic dinners or “lite” dinners or leftover dinners because you’re older now and starting to eat like gerbils.

And you finish early and only have a half a cart of stuff and no, you won’t need a hand bringing it out to your car because, well, you only have like half a cart of stuff. And you hand the gabby but nice checkout clerk your payment and can’t talk back to her because you don’t wanna ever talk back when your voice is ready to crack and your eyes are like wetlands.

• I stole this next one, but I can’t recall from where/whom; so I think it’s OK:

At this precious stage, how fast does all this child-rearing and parenting seem to go by? Very, very fast. Take a remnant of some old trip or purchase or sport or concert souvenir. One from each child leaving for college. Place it high over your head, and slowly, slowly tear it up and watch it float to the ground below.

That fast.

Rob Peters is a long-time resident of Benicia. He has been a full-time counselor at Diablo Valley College for more than two decades.

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