This Whole College Drop-Off Thing Hurts
I can barely see my computer keys as I type. My eyes nearly swollen shut from my recent sob fest. I took my third-born to college today. My third! I didn’t expect it to hurt so much. I know each child is unique and each experience would be equally so, but I pictured myself shedding a few tears as we drove away, and then focusing on the excitement of this new chapter. But, Friends, I am a mess. I feel an emptiness I didn’t expect.
College was short-lived for my first born. He didn’t know what he wanted to do, and didn’t want to waste money trying to figure it out. His father and I started to fret over what would become of him. But at the same time his dad, who has multiple sclerosis, was facing the possibility of entering a nursing home or -- what would have become financially devastating -- hiring a full-time home health aide. He asked Noah to move in with him, at least for a trial run so the whole moving out thing didn’t seem so dramatic. Noah has never looked back, and since they only live ten minutes away, I didn’t feel this same sadness.
Son number 2 attends school half a mile from Noah and his dad, and again only ten minutes from home. Eli lived on campus his first two years so we did the traditional packing up and dropping off at the dorm, but I suppose I knew he could walk through the door at any time to retrieve something he had forgotten. This summer he decided to rent an apartment for the year and since they had to sign a year-long lease, he never really moved back home. I felt sadder about this than I did him going to college in the first place, probably because I had assumed I would still get some summers with my boys.
And now there’s Asher. Granted, he’s only two hours away, and he has a car so he could come home at any time. In fact, even now, my heart leaps when I hear the beep of a car that someone is locking in front of our house, and I keep waiting for the door chime to beep when he walks through the door for the night. But he’s not getting out of the car and locking it, and he’s not walking through the door tonight. The quietness is deafening.
And the ache I feel is real… and surprising. Surprising because this is what we are supposed to do, right? We put them to our breast when they are babies, only to wean them in the coming months. We teach them to hold their own spoons so we don’t forever tell them to open for the choo-choo train. We let go of their hands when we are teaching them to walk, even if it means we let them fall a few times. We help them sound out words and how to pee on a toilet. We teach them how to be a good friend and how to resolve conflicts with siblings. All the things we teach them so they won’t need us anymore. So they can become independent. So they can eventually leave us. We freaking push them out of the proverbial nest. And we do it because we love them. We love them so very deeply, and part of that love is letting them go. Fly, our children, fly.
But damnitall, it’s hard.
I have one more to go. One more who will leave and then, oh man, THEN it will be the quietest of quiets. I don’t know how I will cope when Jaden leaves. Not because I love him more than the others, but because then I have to reinvent what this whole mom gig will look like. Always a mom, but not needed in the same way.
Tonight, when I got myself back together, at least somewhat, I texted my boyfriend for his opinion.
“I shouldn’t text Asher yet, should I?”
“You can text him,” he replied.
“Really? I thought you’d tell me not to text him yet.”
“You can do what you want.”
What I wanted was to make a connection with my son without being overbearing. After all, I had just left him four hours ago. But I’m so glad I did because he told me that he had been bored and missed home so he took a drive and talked to a friend. I cried again at the thought of him missing home, but just as soon as the tears came, they went away. I felt a peace in knowing that he took care of himself by doing things he enjoys - exploring and talking with his friends. I knew he would be okay before but something about the way he handled his homesickness settled me.
Life will be different from now on, and change is hard, but I also know this sadness won’t last forever. I anticipate that it will be replaced with joy in spending time with Jaden these next two years he is home, and relishing the visits and stories I will continue to hear as each of the other boys grow in this stage of their lives.
I wish I could prepare those who will go after me on this journey, but there’s no way to know this pain until you live it. Kind of like childbirth or divorce or the death of a loved one. Sweet Friends, you’re just going to have to feel the feelings as they come. It sucks. There’s no other way around it. My hope for myself, my friends who are dealing with this now, and those who have yet to experience it is that we can continue to tell our stories so at least… at.the.very.least… we know we are not alone.
