my son’s college move-in day

In a baby journal I kept during his first years, I wrote a letter about what I hoped to achieve in preparing him for adulthood.

My son left me when he was 18 years old. Ok, maybe not leave me. He went to college. Today, he starts his third year studying engineering and building rockets with his peers. I remember his move day every start of a new school year. Because that first year was a big adjustment and it started with move day.

The day started at 5am, cramming ourselves into an overstuffed SUV. It was a joyous six hour road trip with me and his younger brother. We talked about current events, politics and books. We agreed on many points and agreed to disagree on others. I was overflowing with pride, having mature and meaningful conversations with my college bound kid. 

The closer we got to his dorm, the more bittersweet it became. Because, how could I possibly be mentally prepared for my firstborn to leave the nest? How could I protect him from [insert all imaginable worst-case-scenarios in any parent’s mind here]? If he is hundreds of miles away, how can I help veer him in the right direction when he steers off-course in life’s journey? 

More importantly, have I properly prepared him for being on his own??

In a perfect world, bad things do not happen. There are no car accidents, no one goes missing and people are always kind to one another. But that world does not exist. So it was important to me that my son understood the realities of life, both good and bad, and how to live a fulfilling and impactful life within its construct. 

Apparently, I was thinking about this even in the first few months of his life. In a baby journal I kept during his first years, I wrote a letter about what I hoped to achieve in preparing him for adulthood. In the sleep deprived, foggy first months of motherhood, wrapped in self doubt and insecurities, I wrote to my baby boy.

Dear Baby [he was 4 months old], 

You are napping right now. I’m hoping you get at least 1.5 hours of sleep. The laundry is going and you always seem to nap well with the humming of the washing machine.

I really want to recount as much of your first weeks as possible, but for now I’ll write about what I hope to achieve as a mother - what I hope to teach you. 

Mainly:

I hope that I can raise you to believe in yourself, trust yourself and your instincts and believe that “failure” doesn’t exist. If you can learn from your mistakes, then you haven’t failed.

I want to protect you from all evil, but I know that it is more important to teach you to protect yourself.

I want you to hear from me the words:

 “I love you” 

“I’m thinking of you” 

“You’re special”

But I hope that I’ll be human enough to say to you:

“I’m sorry”

“I was wrong”

“I’ve made a mistake”

I hope to teach you that how you feel is much more important than what others think about you; that “different” doesn’t necessarily mean “bad”... and that “change,” most of the time, is good. Change generally means growth and progress.

Be true to yourself - listen to your instincts. The truth is always in you, though sometimes we don’t listen, really listen, to ourselves.

Do not forget your past and all its lessons, both good and bad. Look to your future: plan and dream. But don’t spend too much time and energy on either because you’ll miss out on what is going on right now.

Laugh every day and often. Laughter is food for your spirit.

You are loved, my baby-dove. Very much.

I like to believe I made good on the promises in the letter. I provided a nurturing home for him to become his own person. He had a safe place that allowed him to make mistakes and learn from them. But still, the anxiety over my teenager moving out was very real.

In the weeks leading up to his move day, I amped up the life lessons:

“Remember change is constant…”

“Don’t live in fear, live aware…”

“It’s not about the grades, it’s about lifelong learning…”

And I had to fight back all those awful what-if’s creeping into my mind. But he has shown me in these practice years of full-time adulting, that he is doing alright. I see it in our weekly calls and when he is home during school breaks.

He was back for a month this last summer. Our shared home was the occasional free laundromat, rest stop between hangouts with friends, and an all-you-can-order-from-my-Starbucks-app station. His bedroom reverted back to being an art exhibit of used crusty bowls and glasses, with the addition of a beer can or two. But… while home, he also ran errands for me while I worked, and brought home lunch when I was working from home. He took on the house chores that were previously his, cooked for the family and scheduled his own appointments and car maintenance. 

It has been over two years that he has lived on his own, first in a dorm and then in an apartment. Early in his high school years, he promised me that after he moves out, he would call every week. As promised, he FaceTimes me every Sunday. Sometimes it’s a simple catch up, sometimes it’s in depth conversations about maneuvering life. During these conversations, hearing his laughter, priorities and lessons learned from moments of bad judgment… I know he is going to be ok. 

He went back to his apartment a month ago, an apartment that is much more orderly and tidy than his bedroom at our house would suggest. I still miss him often and at odd times, like when I’m taking out the trash or sweeping the kitchen floor after dinner. These were previously his chores, among others. Doing them is a reminder that he contributed to the running of our household. 

Sometimes I’ll read something online or see something that makes me think “what does he think of this?” and realize how much I value his perspective. The discipline he applies to setting and meeting goals inspires me. And he encourages me to keep going when I am overwhelmed by my creative projects.

In a birthday card he gave me, after several months of being on his own, he wrote:

When people compliment me on my character, my outlooks and my values, I can almost always attribute them to things you’ve engrained in me since I was young. You’ve raised me very well, and I can’t thank you enough for that.

At the end of move day two years ago, holding back tears, I said goodbye to my teenager. He is now a mature and independent young man who I am proud to call my son.

h5 to adult kids!

Thoughts or comments? Would love to hear from you here!