D Day
I think the anticipation is the worst - the planning - like anything, “the thinking-about-it” - “how should we do this” going around in the brain - the countdown. And if you’ve ever bought your child a one way ticket to anywhere, because you weren’t entirely sure when they were coming home again, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, try to avoid it (kidding, it’s inevitable, good for them, and good for us).
It’s a weird thing going somewhere with them - and then coming home without them.
“Dropping off day” at college (aka D Day) wasn’t as scary as I had thought. I mean, you are trying to get their loads of stuff from one state to another, via UPS, plane, and rental car, and once it is quickly carted by the 300 + cheering upperclassmen volunteers from the sidewalk straight into her room, the franticness of putting everything away to create space in the dorm room forces a little bit of closure. For some reason, when this happened all I thought was “why did it seem like there was one thousand times more stuff when it was spread out in the living room back home for the last two months?”
The amazing thing about move in day at Belmont U: all the kids in red t-shirts running around and being helpful. We had specific drop off instructions, drove up to a designated spot at a very designated time - a volunteer student stuck his head right in my window, looked in the back and asked “Is the student in your car with you right now?” When they found out she was, the mass of students surrounding our car screamed and cheered her name. I peeked into the back seat and had a hard time figuring out if she was happy, humored, slightly embarrassed or completely horrified. In the end she got out with her shy smile and followed the mob of students that carried her belongings up the three flights to her room.
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Despite the shipping of multiple boxes and two guitars from home, flying with approximately 200 pounds of suitcases on the airplane and some direct shipping from Target and Amazon, how was it even possible that she still needed some things? Her AC wasn’t working and we were in Nashville in 98 degrees humidity, so she needed a fan. 6 foot extension chords wouldn’t reach to her bed that was 7 feet from the ground. She packed double the clothes than she realized (but I realized) so more hangers were a priority. Her pillows and towels never arrived, so those were quickly added to the list.
We piled into her dad’s rental car - me, sitting between my two girls, my ex husband and his girlfriend in front, and drove to Target 20 minutes away (it is only weird if you think about it really hard). We grabbed a cart and shopped. She tossed in a few things here and there that weren’t on the list, but at that point I didn’t care. My almost maxed out card from the traveling, prepping, deposits, last meal celebrations (one in every favorite restaurant back home), tuition, and fried chicken SHOULD work.
We wandered around passing other moms in the aisles with the same glazed look as mine, their college bound children in tow, tossing things into the carts very similar to ours. “It’s almost over” one said quietly to me. Another rolled her eyes. One laughed when they overheard me tell my daughter “do you have to choose the most expensive one?”
The aforementioned 7 foot high bunk bed had posed a problem. When I say it was 7 feet high, it was AT LEAST 7 feet high. Well over a foot over my head, we realized that they didn’t come with a guard rail of any sort. The school advertised ones that attached to the sides for $169 but they were sold out for the semester.
I led my daughter to the baby aisle at Target and casually tossed a white baby bed guard rail into the cart and kept walking. Her eyes widened and then she shrugged.
It was going to be okay. My child was officially entering college not caring what other people thought of her. Baby guard rail and all.
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The evening of the college “Towering Traditions” welcoming event included parents and we sat together through speeches, songs, pep rally cheers and inspirational talks by the various students, faculty, including the provost and dean of students. The music, cheering, speeches, slideshows affirmed that we are leaving our children in good hands, with a great educational opportunity. It was encouraging and inspiring - all of us in the auditorium that night were in the same boat and to be in the same boat with that many, well, you realize you aren’t alone. And there are far many more parents throughout the world, leaving their kids at college, right at that same moment, around Labor Day weekend - every year.
But the real clincher was the final segment. They asked us to put our arms around those next to us, who were obviously our own children, and the blessings began. The words were projected on the large screen on stage, and while it was being read out loud to us, we followed along ourselves.
There was a blessing for our children. There was a blessing for us parents. There was a blessing for the families, as a whole. It honestly should have been cheesy but it was really really beautiful.
If I could remember it and recite it here, I would, but it was a passing of the baton, almost a promise that all would be well.
My arm flung around my daughter next to me, I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, she looked at me - we both gave goofy sad frown faces, then sad smiles, then that nervous laugh that comes with “ugh, this is going to change everything, but it is okay!”
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When I said goodbye to her at 11am the next day (“parent dismissal” per college instructions) I cried.
I wept as I walked away and that was it.
It was just sort of IT. Period.
It was 100 degrees a this point, I was wearing this pink long sundress but WAY too hot…makeup melted with my tears. I waited for my ride in the shade on a wall. A family of five appeared nearby, a set of parents, three littles, and a new college freshman. They talked for a minute, then gathered around in a circle holding hands, foreheads pressed together, and I listened to them pray in unison for strength, guidance and safety for their college girl (while I cried next to them). They broke apart, the kids hugged, the parents hugged the kid, they parted and the mom walked by me, touched my arm and smiled.
I still wonder if she ever cried or if the strength of her prayer made it easier to walk away.
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I’d stupidly booked a few extra days to sightsee after the official drop off, so from there I ate my way through the rest of the day, toured a plantation, partook in a wine tasting. The better thing would have been to rip the bandaid off faster and hop on a plane and face the emptiness of home right away. Instead, I was waffling around her state, not being able to see her.
To mix with the emotions, a text came in a few hours later. I looked at my phone and there was a text from my girl - “I have time for dinner tomorrow night!”.
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We picked her up at school the next evening, the night before heading back home to Boston. She says “Let’s go to The Tap Room” as if it was The Peach Pit on Beverly Hills 90210 - as if she had already been drinking rounds there with the locals. When the waiter asked if I would like a five dollar margarita, I stared at him a moment.
“Should I or shouldn’t I?”
I was thinking it could go one of two ways - I could cry harder and longer and uglier with a margarita when we have our second goodbye OR it could offer pure gold courage to hug her like a grownup, take some snapshots, and wave her off. Fortunately on round two it was the latter. Watching her walk away after getting out of the car was the most inspiring yet heartbreaking thing I have experienced since dropping her in 6th grade at a brand new school. Our two hours with her, she was already changed. She had a lot to say. She already know a lot more than she did the day before.
I knew she was okay - that made me okay right then. That’s how it works apparently.
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Going back home, “they” say will be the worst. Well, I unpacked and wandered around the house for another 24 hours before getting back into life a little. The closed bedroom door was haunting in about a million ways. I’m not sure which I dreaded the most - the emptiness without her or the overflowing amount of renovation and clean-out that needed to happen.
First, it wasn’t going to open again any time soon and have her walk out. Second, I wasn’t going to ever again open it to drag her out of bed on a school day. Third, I knew it was left exactly as she left it - a heavy coating of dust bunnies, dirty and clean clothes mixed together, water bottles and miscellaneous trash - nail holes and tape all over the walls, ripped posters, candle wax and remnants from burning sage and incense and about 50 hours worth of cleaning and painting.
On day five I went in.
What didn’t go in the trash went into tubs and stacked in the hall, clothes were hung in the closet, furniture slid out into the living room. I hooked up the hose and started hosing the room down (not really, a rag and a bucket of bleach did the trick)….a day of scrubbing, sanding and wall spackle and then two coats of white paint later, I put back a third of what had been living in there. I made her a grown up room and there were mixed emotions about how different it felt. It felt right, but it felt different.
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When I left her in Nashville, I wasn’t planning to return for parent’s weekend. I mean, five weeks later, the thought of another big trip was paralyzing after recuperating from the last one. Not to sound insensitive, but, I think we can all wait til Christmas. Plus, she didn’t need me all in her face anymore.
A few weeks later on one of her calls, I could tell there was something she is stalling to ask - it’s usually about needing more hangers, shampoo and conditioner, mac and cheese for her dorm room, a printer - all valid requests and thankfully for Amazon Prime and my Target debit card, I can send them direct instead of having her wander the local target for “stuff” with my credit card in hand.
She finally blurts out “So, can I come home for Parents Weekend?”
The mom in me will never go away. It just won’t, the same way that parenting never left my own parent’s souls, so of course we bought her a ticket home.
Early, the morning of her flight, I texted asking her to send a screen shot of her Lyft ride, so I would know who would be driving her to the airport - ALONE. Ten minutes later, when I expected her to still be sleeping, I got the screenshot of a nice looking older woman named Joy and her license plate. She’d headed out 3 1/2 hours early for her flight. All I could think of was “thank goodness it was a woman driver” and “She likes to be early, like me, I’ve taught her something!”
Driving home from Boston later on, we chatted, listened to music - the fact that we talk almost every day meant we were already caught up on things. She talked about her classes, changing her major (didn’t we all change our majors at least once?) friends. One happened to be the daughter of a famous Country singer. “Do you know so-and-so? That’s her dad.” And I was like “um, what? That means so-and-so is her mom….” She shrugged, “yeah, I guess so”. She had no idea. “He’s on tour I guess.” I love that she was unenthused - yes is always enamored by what lies ahead.
You know, since she left, my child is different - she’s almost not my child anymore. It has been hard to see the same girl that was there when we said goodbye in August - hard to see the same girl on Facetime or through text. Confidence, a new kind, takes the place of the leaning in on Mom for simple answers. On the visit home, it was easy to see some resemblance of her as she settled in at home for a few days. Dishes went unwashed. She slept in and lounged on the couch, clutching the cats. She asked for favorite foods, to go shopping, and wanted to RELAX.
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The best line of the weekend was when she’d just arrived and blurted out “I am ready to go back to school, I miss it.” That is when I knew she was in her right place, that she was prepared, ready, strong, and willing. Nothing would be wasted here, nothing would be wasted on her.
Something feels off at night still, with her gone. It feels a little bit like when you have a bad night sleep and you don’t realize it’s because you were wearing your most uncomfortable underwear. Nothing ever changes the fact that D day is the day your life changes, the day your child’s life changes. She is never coming home again for life to be the same, no matter how much we try to duplicate it. Trying to navigate the things she might need - know what to respond to - try to fix or not fix - because she probably already has a plan, well, that is where the change from desperation to hold onto it changes to letting go. I have no idea where to go from there, but she’s in the driver’s seat.