They’re not freshman anymore, for pete’s sake. Why does it still hurt when they go back to college?
I remember well the swell of emotion when moving my kids into college freshman year. As I said goodbye to my son at the University of Michigan, we purposely did so in a crowded public place so that I could turn my back and be lost in the crowd, and he wouldn’t see the tears running down my face.
The next year as we dropped our youngest off for her freshman year at Ohio State, I held it together for one last hug in front of her new roommate and wordlessly gave a little wave goodbye, because I couldn’t trust my voice, and I know if is embarrassing when Mom is “inappropriately emotional.” Then I cried for the next eight hours.
In both cases, I was so very happy for my kids, overwhelmed with the good things I knew were coming their way. I was proud of them, of how they had grown up, and the (mostly) capable humans they had become. Of course there was a tiny part of me that was scared for them: would they be safe, stay healthy, be removed from harm? But my tears weren’t really about fear, but about love and pride and how quickly time had gone, and hope for a wonderful college experience. And my tears were also about something else. . .
Boo Hoo. Poor me.
It is with embarrassment and no pride that I admit that part of my separation sadness was about me; I was throwing for myself a big old Pity Party. So many of us new Empty Nesters (how I hate that term) go through it. And I’m not going to discuss at length here that first year, because that’s not what this post is about. Suffice it to say that I faced the isolation, purposelessness, and boredom that so many parents are crushed with when their kids leave home. It was a rough two years, launching both kids in a span of 13 months. I went “under,” not leaving the house for days, not exercising, not wanting to connect with friends. But I got through it. Again, that’s not really what this post is about.
Fast forward 3 1/2 years. My son Dominick is a senior at the University of Michigan, and couldn’t be doing any better. Daughter Rosie is a junior at Ohio State, and is thriving. Both are successful and happy, with good friends and good grades. I could not be any happier with the places where they spend nine months of the year. All is good – really couldn’t be better – with the kids. And I’m good too. I adjusted. I reconnected with friends, took on some projects that were meaningful for me. I hope I am a supportive-but-not-overly-clingy mom. I’ve come a long way.
I’m cured, right?
Oh yes, I’ve come a long way. Until this morning, when I hugged them both goodbye, after the end of Christmas break. And then proceeded to cry for two hours.
I should be past this, right? Didn’t I figure this all out a few years ago?
The answer to that, according to the stack of soggy Kleenex next to me, is no. I didn’t. And I might not ever. Because they come home and I am reminded how funny and smart and kind they are. I get to hug them when they come down in the morning, bleary-eyed and slightly grumpy. They indulge me when they return at night by telling me about their evenings, as I hang on every word and they just want to go up to bed. I remember how much I care about every moment of their day, even if I can’t be a part of that any more. The house is full of dirty laundry and video games and Netflix, and one or both of them seems to be napping during all daytime hours. It is chaotic and wonderful.
And just when I’m growing used to it again, it is time to return for spring semester. They are excited to see their friends, and to jump into new interesting classes. They look forward towards their campuses, not backwards towards home, towards their dad and me. And that’s the way it should be, and is everything we raised them to do. But here I am again, with a big hole right in the center of my insides.
So allow me a quick Pity Party. I’m not sad for my kids – they are right where they should be. I’m sad for me, because I miss them so much. Even now, after 3 ½ years of starting new semesters, it still rips me up a bit, every time. I know I’ll get past it. I’ll adjust. But for a day, I’m grabbing the Kleenex and being inappropriately emotional.
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