It’s here. Again. A day of last minute laundry and packing, goodbyes, airports. The house, suddenly so quiet, as my teenager prepares to fly back to college. To begin his sophomore year.
It was an evening of more loads of wash than I can count, the heap of luggage in the living room finally emptied, in order to sort through and repack. There were more teens in and out. There was another party, but calmer than the last. There was an evening of my holding back tears, and holing up in my bedroom. Out of the way.
This morning, there were a few extras on the sofa and in the guest “suite” also known as our storage closet, home to foreign students at various points in time, and any other young man or woman in need of a mattress for the night.
I made coffee. Several pots. Strong. I kissed my son, we chatted a little, and I pushed back the tears again. He was relaxed and organized. Told me I didn’t need to whisper. Apparently his friend on the couch can sleep through anything.
It’s a travel day. I printed my son’s itinerary and handed it to him. He folded it, put it in his pocket, then changed light bulbs for me. He woke his friends. They piled his luggage into a car, and headed to the airport, just now. I will track his flight online, he’ll text me when he lands, and I will spend this next week readjusting to his absence.
When we enter the adventure of parenthood, we’re unaware of how profoundly we will love the squalling, famished, needy, boisterous, mysterious, complicated creatures who emerge on the scene, and spend the next two decades (or more) wearing us out, making us laugh, breaking our hearts, and shaping our lives into more meaningful, more expansive vessels than we ever imagined possible.
When we say our goodbyes in bits and pieces over the years, as our sons and daughters grow into their independence, we learn to trust their judgment. We watch them spread their newly forming wings. We’re doing our job.
I’ve been here before. I will be here again. Navigating these travel days which do not belong to me, but to my children. These are necessary goodbyes, and they remind me I’m raising young men who are strong, resourceful, curious, and capable. Yes, for me, what follows is a period of emptiness. And then routine returns, with its own particular rhythm.
But I’m tired of goodbyes. I’m ready for a hello.
My heart goes out to you as I know how this feels! #5 went back to school on Monday after many texts and phone calls from his new suite mates saying he was going to miss the Sunday night party. He needed the time to get packed and do his laundry and say goodbye here. I needed the time to run a race, a half marathon, on Sunday morning.
I know you know in spades, Nicki. It’s hard. Every damn time. It should get easier, but it doesn’t.
Okay, I am going to get playful on you here and quote a little Neil Diamond. “Hello, my friend, hello. I called to say hello. I think about you every night. When I am here alone. And you’re there at home. Hello.”
I could really relate to this post – I just went through virtually the same thing when my kids were all gone after their summer visit. Those feelings also resulted in a post: http://www.mysiteontheweb.us/?m=20100803 if you’re interested. No obligation.
My son decided to stay in town for college, maybe because his big move was from the UK to the USA. However, my niece left for Connecticut yesterday to start her first year at college, and today her mother is feeling as she says ‘like her right arm is missing’.
My daughter will start college in two years and is already stating the she is going away to study, and I know I will be feeling what you all are feeling now or have in the past, but for now I can put it on hold, if only for a short time.
Keep up the good work!
Hello, Dolly. Well, Hello Dolly.
Hello again hello.
Hello, is it me your looking for?
You say goodbye and I say hello.
Hello, I love you. Won’t you tell me my name.
You and I are simpatico. I wrote a post all about hellos because goodbyes suck…even if they are just part of the letting go. Bluck. So I say you get a CD with all of these “hello” songs and play them over and over again while you watch Jerry Maguire and wait for that line…”You had me at hello.”
BLW, it seems so hard, the different goodbyes we have to tell our children no matter what their age. Although I am not there yet, I could feel the emotion in your words. I am not looking forward to all the goodbyes that I will share with my daughter. Sending you hugs.
Thank you for the various hellos (and song lyrics). They brought a smile to my lips. And at least I won’t be quite so buried in laundry. . .
You’re a brave good mom—I dread these fast approaching travel days and my heart breaks in advance, so I thank you for your kind and generous words that help soothe and link and encourage and frame and reframe and somehow make it seem just a touch more possible.
We raise them to leave, as you well know, Bruce. It’s the natural cycle of things, but perhaps a little harder when our worlds are otherwise unpopulated.
I am only now beginning to see what lies ahead and the emptiness it will bring with it. One of my hopes for them is that they find wives who like me and don’t mind visiting. 🙂 Good luck with your routine and settling in.
This post brought tears to my eyes – my beautiful, talented, funny, intelligent child just knocked me out with her speedy trajectory – graduating from college and marrying her college sweetheart (who I adore!). We talked on the phone four or five times a week, and I slowly inched back into my own life – as the same silly, wonderful me, only older. Then, she gave me a grandson! I held her soft shoulders as she delivered. Oh my! You just won’t believe how many deep belly laughs you have in store for you, my dear girl!!
Thank you for this, DD! I think I needed to hear it – today especially. I’d like to think I’ll be around for those belly laughs in years to come. (Have to get those kids through college first!) And may those who in the cyber-neighborhood who are a bit younger and still in the thick of it know many, many years of the joys (and mischief) leading up to these travel days. And our misty, weary, proud moments of loving our families.