A Long Goodbye

August ramblings from a mom preparing for the big goodbye

We’re about a month shy of the great big goodbye to my college bound son. Compared to many of his peers who are trickling off one by one, we have a few extra weeks, which feels luxurious. It must feel weird to say goodbye to your buddies, I said to him the other night. Yeah, it is, he mumbled, and I leaned against his doorframe, waiting for what else was underneath those words but he remained quiet and I didn’t press. He’s a spartan with words, this kid. Goodnight, I told him. I love you. I love you, too, he said. He always says it back and while I know it’s habitual, those four words trailing my three, I’ll never grow tired of hearing them. This is motherhood.

Recently I took my rambling crew to Target in anticipation of another school year. My daughter needed a new backpack, a pile of fresh notebooks and a few dozen mechanical pencils and my son, well, he needed everything. The last time I had both of my kids with me at Target, they perused the Lego aisle while sipping on chocolate milk while I drank a giant coffee perusing my phone. Of course my teenage daughter will still accompany me to Target so she can stock up on skin care but my son tapped out years ago. So as we all walked through those magical red doors, I felt a tug of happy nostalgia, although my toddlers may have been better behaved than my teens as my son grabbled the cart to terrorize me by clipping my ankles with it and my daughter abandoned us to go drown in creams and lip glosses.

Into the cart, we threw his new bed, a pile of hangers, a desk lamp. You need towels, I said. Can’t I just take one from home, he asked so earnestly it kinda broke my heart. We can get you a set of fresh towels, I replied to my spartan. No color coordinated dorm for this boy, not a second wasted of overthinking his supplies. Just roll his things up, put a pack on his back and he’d find a way to survive. While searching for surge protectors we bumped into my daughter and then found ourselves once again in the toy section where my kids tossed a huge stuffed football back and forth, laughing while they tried to hit my head with it. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. We rolled our overflowing cart to checkout, its contents holding a life to be lived 700 miles from me. This is motherhood.

Whiskey Not Included For Dorm Life

I took my son up to Seattle last week so he could fraternize with Greek life and I could see his campus. I needed to have a little time to soak up a feeling for his new home before we moved him in. For 23,000 steps we traversed and conversed as he guided me around the dizzying collegiate beauty of the University of Washington. Campus was quiet, of course, but as we strolled the square and past the great empty lawns, I could feel the ghost of his future hurrying to class or taking a break in a patch of sunny grass, the buzz of possibility pulsing. We ate burgers and I bought him a pair of jeans as my California kid does not own jeans. Just one pair, though, always my spartan. I know it’s the Midwest he inherited from me; those genes run strong.

Our tired feet made their way back to my hotel where my son catnapped, took a shower, then grabbed his duffel bag to walk to the frat house that was hosting him. Want me to walk with you? No. Are you nervous, I asked? A little. Excited? Yes, he said. Have fun, be safe, love you, my six words of motherhood trailing his steps.

I love you, too.

After he left, I stood and stared outside my open hotel window, looking down upon the streets my son will call home. All these strange corners will become familiar, these new places will collect old memories. He’ll always feel young here, I thought. This place will live inside of him forever.

It was still early evening. Rain was coming, but not for a few hours. I wandered outside and walked through campus on my own. I made it to the water’s edge and found a shack with tacos and margaritas. I sat alone and listened to the locals jabber.

This is motherhood.