And Then There Was One: Part Two

I miss him. The bedroom he shared with Elias for the past 13 years is cleaner without him. His bed is made. There is only one set of man-child clothing strewn across every surface of the room. There is less laundry. No one is asking for that nasty frozen popcorn chicken. We went to Trader Joe’s and didn’t need to buy salsa and chips (how long do you think the 12 jars we left him will last?). He took all four pairs of shoes with him. Who will drink the whole milk he used for his protein shakes?

Parenting is perpetually asking yourself if you are doing enough or doing too much. It is trying to live in the moment while planning ahead for every possibility. It is humbling, exhausting, exhilarating. It is an exercise in faith, trusting God is in control while also knowing we are partially responsible. And just when you think you can’t sign any more reading logs or stay up to make sure s/he makes it home by curfew, it’s time to tell them to jump, just like I did when I forced each of my children to take swimming lessons because I didn’t learn how to swim until I was in fourth grade and am an insecure swimmer. The instructors would line them up at the edge of the pool and tell the kids to jump.

Corban, jump. It will be OK.

We were already onto phase two of move-in day, which consists of a trip to Target to pick up everything we weren’t sure he needed but now were certain he would die without. We decided where the area rug would go, and set up the lounge chair that will mess up his spine. Elias had fan assembly duty. Peter was putting together the lamp. Bethany was putting together the photo collage. I was putting away the environmentally-unfriendly but college kid-friendly supply of paper plates and bowls and plastic cups and utensils. Corban’s only job was to get his bearings.

So he stood there, in the middle of the room, holding a bunch of papers that were handed to him when he checked in and got his keys (keys to the room and to the BATHROOM!!! Keys to the BATHROOM????) looking as overwhelmed as we all were. He looked up from the papers and said, “Hey. Thanks for helping me move in.”

You are so very welcome, Corban. Just don’t forget to call or text or Snapchat. #runmyson

I asked him to take a selfie on his first day of classes.





These Things I Know For Certain. Maybe.

I knew I would cry.

This year dropping off the oldest at school for her second year took on a different level of planning, and in the end it was a mom and daughter road trip to Long Island.

I knew the drive would require a new level of stamina and patience. Fourteen hours and 850+ miles is a lot even for the two of us. I knew we would laugh and sing and eat and need some time to decompress from being with each other non-stop. I knew we would both need our alone time. I knew the last two nights we would be sharing a bed.

I knew it would be difficult to say goodbye, despite knowing in my heart of hearts she is exactly where she needs to be doing what she is meant to do learning things she must learn away from the safety net (bubble?) of her home and family. I knew we would do some last-minute shopping so I could leave knowing she would not starve to death. I knew I would want to do whatever she wanted to do just so that we could have a little more time together.

I thought I knew. But I didn’t.

I knew I would be exhausted from the drive and sleep soundly, but I was so attuned to her presence I found myself listening to her breathe and move. In the dark of the night she was a little girl again, taking a nap in her four-poster bed after a full day of kindergarten. I didn’t know she would sound the same. I didn’t know that the sound of her breathing would still keep me awake, just like it did when we she was an infant and we were paranoid first-time parents.

I knew moving her into her dorm without the help of my husband would be physically exhausting because even after all of these years dorm furniture remains ugly, heavy, and unwieldy. I didn’t know she would ask for my opinion so often and that she would take my advice to maximize the view. Her room has a sunny window with a great view of Manhattan (if you squint and it is unusually clear); she’ll wake up to that view every morning assuming she opens her eyes. That? I don’t know.

I knew that last day was going to be quiet. We had spent the previous three days in each other’s company, sharing every amazing meal, sharing a room and then a bed, sharing toiletries and coffee. We had spent the summer together learning to be together as mother and young adult daughter. We had not come close to doing all the things, eating all the foods, finishing all the projects we had planned, but we knew we had all summer. I didn’t know the summers get shorter every year mirroring the shortened summer days. I didn’t know that I could be simultaneously excited my sons – in high school and middle school – had finally started school and be utterly annoyed that college classes started two days before the Labor Day weekend when we all could’ve traveled together and said one big goodbye.

I knew saying goodbye is part of the deal, even if it is only until Thanksgiving, but I didn’t know how fast 19 years would go by. I knew I would cry because love, excitement, hope, anticipation, and sadness always do that to me, but I didn’t know she would cry, too.

I don’t know what the year holds for her, but I know she is where she needs to be.