The summer is beginning its quiet but determined transition to fall. The leaves on the trees, having weathered the summer heat, start to change color, and they loosen their grip on branches. The warm breezes silently convert to winds with a stealthy chilly undercurrent. Parents anticipate their children’s return to the comforting routine of academia. And recent high school graduates look forward to what a year ago seemed out of reach – moving out of family homes to college dormitories and apartments.
Our next-door neighbor’s daughter is leaving for her freshman year in college, and I feel misty-eyed. It is not that I know her well – or at all, really. But she is the bright and socially conscious, only-child of our neighbors. Her parents adore her, as is evidenced by the way they speak of her. Her father calls her “the Princess” in a tone that reveals more about his devotion than any attribute of hers. Her mother makes the familiar jokes that all moms do when their children leave home – complaints about how many suitcases they need to pack, how much they will spend at Target to furnish dorm rooms, and how they will probably eat better meals in the cafeteria than they do at home.
She doesn’t fool me. The trip to deliver your child to college is the most exquisite, yet unbearable, travel of your life.
I distinctly remember the last hug I gave our oldest son when dropping him off at a small, private college in southern California. I looked into his eyes and saw them soften – for just a minute. Turning away and walking towards our rental car to drive to the airport was almost unendurable. I could not grasp the void that his absence would create, although his younger brothers immediately – and enthusiastically - jousted to lay claim to his bedroom. For a full two weeks, colors seemed somewhat muted, almost sorrowful, as perceived by my maternalistic eyes. I felt an almost feral sense of loss.
Four years later, we delivered our middle son to his southern California university. We met his roommate, admired his fancy dorm room, and listened to speeches by professors and administrators, who had preached to thousands of parents before us, about opportunity and growth of their students. When we left, Andy gave me a grateful hug, his warmth eclipsed, just a bit, by the excitement of a life unfettered by parental oversight. He turned and jogged away with unbound anticipation.
We were seasoned parents when we delivered our youngest son to yet-another pricey southern California school. We walked the beautiful campus and watched dozens of other parents reading brochures, pointing out residence and academic halls, and trundling bags and boxes. I saw mothers hold their daughters’ hands, their offspring switching roles and comforting their parents. Evan was organized and resolute in executing enrollment logistics. Such is the way of a third child, for whom self-sufficiency is a survival mechanism. He was remarkably patient with my maternal ministrations, but he drew the line with me taking incessant cell phone videos of him. At that point, I knew it was time to leave.
Returning to an empty, quiet house after leaving our youngest child at college had a surreal, almost dreamlike quality to it. The bedrooms stayed tidy, the bathroom sinks, impeccable. I had moments when I thought I heard the refrigerator door opening and slamming shut, dishes clattering in the sink. I was unapologetically sad for a time, just shy of bereft. I knew our children were well-prepared for college; it was me that was unequipped for a life without them.
I soldiered on, gaining comfort from my offspring’s cheery messages and phone calls, heartened by the knowledge that they were where they were supposed to be at the time that was right for them. I understood that as they moved into their new life phase, I had to move on, as well. Launching a child is bittersweet, but I understood that if it doesn’t feel that way, then you have missed out on the joy the previous parenting chapter brought you. My job transitioned from on-the-spot mentor, cheerleader, and occasional authoritarian to a remote, on-call consultant. (“Yes, Eric, it is a good idea to separate light and dark clothes when you do laundry.”)
Well, that and I was remarkably adroit in paying tuition on-line and transferring monthly allowances into checking accounts. It is good to be needed, all things considered.