In just a few months, the high school class of 2025 will graduate, with many heading off to college away from home. Social media feeds are filled with stories and posts teeming with advice, fear, and tears. And that’s just from the parents’ perspective.
As with most things in parenting and life, expectations can diverge from reality. Without realizing it, I had internalized a picture of what it would be like to launch my first son into college, thinking about what to do and, more pertinently, what not to do, like breaking down in hysterics or seeking out the dorm RA.
Trust me, almost everything you do will be mortally embarrassing in front of their soon-to-be friends. And don’t do an overnight in your child’s dorm as this mother did, not that that ever entered my imagination.
But what about when the experience is completely different than anything you’d expected? That’s what happened to me, and, spoiler alert, that’s okay.
Let me take you back to when I sent my eldest to college for the first time. And I say “sent” because that’s what I did. I didn’t go.
Fourteen years ago, my husband took our eldest son to college while I stayed home with the other children. The school was a flight away, and we are not a long road trip kind of family, especially not with two younger kids in tow. Trust me, I wanted to be there, to experience the joy and pain of taking my eldest to college.
After all, not only had I endured an emergency c-section after epidural-free labor and pushing eighteen years earlier, but I also had done all of the “get the kid ready to go” work. Ordering the “stuff,” he’d need for his room and life (pro tip: always get less) like XL twin bedding including two different mattress protectors and mattress pad; towels; organizer and storage stuff; rug; dishes; desk lamp; school compliant surge protector; etc. It’s a pretty extensive list, secured without seeing the room or the dorm.
I also did not see the fruits of my labor. I arranged for the guys to pick it up at big-box stores near campus and lug it to his room. Thus, I missed out on ceremoniously making the bed and setting up the room, which I had been led to believe was an important part of motherhood.
For the record, I can now say it’s not since I have done it for my two other sons. There were no grand gestures of appreciation from them; rather, it was more of a “get out of here and let the fun begin” vibe.
Because I wasn’t there, I never met his freshman-year roommate or his parents. Although I was disappointed at the time, it quickly became irrelevant as they weren’t destined to become friends. It’s possible the two guys never spoke after that year.
According to my husband’s report, parent orientation consisted mainly of parents sobbing as administrators advised them to give the kids space and time. So, in my view, I missed (another) opportunity to cry, including saying goodbye on campus.
Our goodbye was at the airport drop-off, rushed by my husband and the traffic officers. I said what I had to, and they were off. No tears, no drama, no trauma. I drove home in a state of shocked silence.
