The College Homecoming

Thank goodness it’s finally June. May was a very long month, a full May-maggeddon, and May-cember rolled into one brutal stretch. Those thirty-one days brought a tsunami of business and personal activities, cramming six months’ worth of engagements into that one month as though there was an invisible hard stop for June.

June is for graduations, end-of-school-year events, weddings, dads, and summer. Everything else should have happened before. Or the universe seems to have decreed.

But there’s one little-discussed “storm” that comes in May and stays until the end of August: the returning college student. And their “stuff.” You know, everything you lovingly purchased to furnish a dorm room? Well, it all comes home, along with some unidentifiable objects.

As someone very much in her de-accessioning era, I struggle to welcome home the uncurated and disorganized boxes and bags that were loaded into the car. Was it necessary to bring home the vacuum cleaner that broke (and was replaced) four months ago, along with empty bottles of body wash and shampoo?

“Please put all of the bedding in one big bag to take to the fluff-and-fold laundromat,” I plead. Yes, it is expensive, but to me, it is worth every penny not to risk damaging my home machine.

Believe me, I have tried to help him streamline this annual migration, yet it remains a work in progress (very slowly). Though I will say, he did toss the bedroom rug that surely was encrusted with – well, I dare not ask or imagine.

No doubt, the bigger adjustment is the returning son himself. After five weeks of empty nest bliss, perhaps the longest uninterrupted span yet, my husband and I are not alone. Private conversations must now retreat to private spaces. No more kitchen dancing in our underwear. Not that that we ever did, of course. But we could have.

My son recently lamented how difficult it is to come home and live with his parents after being on his own, even if just for the summer. I was sorely tempted to respond with, ‘Oh, do you not like having a full refrigerator, a clean home, a private bedroom, and access to a car?’

Instead, I offered him the parental truth: it’s hard for us, too.

Our peaceful morning coffee routine now requires a bigger pot and is also repeatedly interrupted by another adult underfoot, making a full hot breakfast for himself. The dishwasher is constantly full, and the kitchen counter always seems to have remnants of someone else’s meals. The house’s baseline noise has jumped by decibels, helped along by a myriad of devices, 3D printers, and well-expressed video enthusiasm.

My access to the laundry room now depends on his washing schedule, as he seems to wash one pair of socks at a time. And there’s the complex coordination of who’s going where, when, and how. Not fully independent, and yet not dependent, there’s another person in the home, and we have many discussions about what it means to be a good “roommate” when you’re living with your parents. It’s another work in progress.

The biggest shift, though, isn’t in our routine but in the sudden reallocation of mental real estate. There’s now this whole section of my brain dedicated to wondering what he’s up to every moment – a gentle hum that fills up quiet corners of thought. When he was at school, I had those calm stretches of not knowing whether he’d eaten his sandwich or remembered to wash his hands, free from tracking every little detail of his day.

Don’t get me wrong, the worry never stops – it’s practically in the mom job description! However, the low-level monitoring system that shuttered (or slowed down) during the college semester has been reactivated. It stands ready for an alert, including every thud, clang, or shout heard around the house.

For all the stories you hear about parents eagerly awaiting the college student’s return–or ruing the out-of-town internship keeping her away– reality is likely more nuanced. It turns out that having your adult child home is a bit like learning to live with a delightful, well-meaning houseguest who knows exactly which of your buttons to push and has permanent residence privileges. We’re all adjusting, one load of single socks at a time.