Soapbox

Stephen Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Well, he’s gone. For now, at least.

We packed the van last night and early this morning we headed off in the drizzle (that turned to a downpour) and took Steve to college. Yes, that day that I thought might never come when he was 5 years old and crying on his first day of kindergarten because the teacher made him leave his new crayons at school- has come indeed.

At first we sort of fell into this whole "Steve is going to O.U." thing when we were checking out scholarship opportunities. I never expected Steve to go there just because it is the school I attended, but it did make a certain amount of sense, being neither too close nor too far away, not overwhelmingly huge like OSU and in a town filled with relatives he can be with if he gets lonely. He seemed to warm to the idea and said he felt ready to step up from the relatively safe world of Community College to the real deal, and the next thing I knew he was the proud owner of a Dean’s List scholarship and registering for classes at Ohio University. Suddenly, there was nothing left to do but pack.

Of course I started getting ready months ago, making mental and then actual shopping lists. I collected a few sturdy boxes in the garage and began filling them with the stuff I thought he would need: garbage bags, first aid kit, lightbulbs, towels and sheets and, of course, for a boy’s dorm room: a closet deodorizer. Early this week I tried to prod the boy himself into taking part in the packing of his life, going through the stuff I had already assembled and suggesting that while I was at work he might want to pack up CD’s, books and posters that he wished to take. But every day I would come home and find he had done basically nothing. 2 nights before we were due to leave, I marched down the basement to where he was watching television and said, "Steve, do you really want to arrive at college Friday knowing that your Mommy packed your stuff?"

He looked up from South Park with an utterly bland expression on his face and said, "I’m fine with that, actually" and then grinned. Clearly he inherited his packing instincts from his father and not me, as he decided Thursday afternoon that he was ready, at last, to toss a few things in a bag for our Friday departure.

I was a little worried that I was sending too much stuff, though I wanted to send even more. I guess I wanted to put as much of this house and this life into a box as I could. Ted teased me a bit about the food I was packing: "Trace, they have food in Athens, you know." Yeah, and he lives 15 feet from the cafeteria, but after 19 years, I don’t know how not to feed the child.

As we got to town we passed a flashing sign: "West and South Greens: exit Richland Ave. East Green: exit Stimson Ave" and suddenly I got choked up for a moment. It was something about the image of all those cars brimming with cardboard boxes, ferrying excited kids and anxious parents who have spent so many years on a road that led them to this place and this day- that was almost too much for a second. I remembered when I was just starting college- and how the world seemed full of possibilities and nowledge. How long has it been since I felt that way? I also remember all the mistaes, and the hearaches, and wonder how many of them await this young man I have spent 20 years of my life watching over.

We arrived at Perkins Hall just as his roommate and his family was preparing to check in to their room. The families exchanged hellos and began hauling boxes and put the room together in an hour or two, swapping stories and comparing supplies. (Checking out his roommate’s boxes, I did not overpack, by the way.) Then we ran errands, had lunch, etc. We were going to go walk around campus after that to make sure Steve knew how to get from his room to 1) the library 2) all his classes and 3) various relatives’ houses. But it was pouring rain, so instead we drove to the store to pick up a loaf of bread, quart of milk and a jar of jelly to go with his peanut butter for his dinner and headed back to the dorm.

"Well, what do you think: shall we park and come in with you, or are you done with us?" I was impressed by how casually Ted asked the huge question.
"I think I’m done. You guys can go," my firstborn said quietly.

So we pulled up at the corner and Ted said goodbye, shook his hand and Steve got out of the van. I needed to move up to the front seat, so I got out too and gave him a quick, damp hug and said "Call anytime- don’t be a stranger" or something equally not representative of the hugeness of the moment– and he said cheerfully, "Bye mom" and trotted off through the rain.

"Bye mom" Just like that: the border is crossed, the book of childhood is closed.

I didn’t let myself watch him go: I just turned the music up louder in the van and started to sing along. After all, this is what every parent wants: that when the time comes, the child will cheerfully and confidently step over the edge of the nest and fly. Particularly for this child and the personal challenges he has faced, this is a wonderful thing. And the boy is landing quite nearby for now. But as we drove off with the rain streaking the windows and Dan Fogleberg singing "Be On Your Way" I had to fight to hold back tears.

Going off to college is a big rite of passage for kids, but it is an equally big passage for parents. It is the end of a journey that began the day someone handed you a small, sticky bundle and said "You’re in charge now". The journey begins with a wonderful and frightening hello and finishes with an equally confusing goodbye: goodbye to the child, at least, if not to the person.
"I’m done" he said to us, and for the most part, I guess he is. I just hope we’re all ready for it.

I’ve been trying to remember what it felt like before the kids were born- when "just the two of us" was normal, not a temporary state that would soon end with a door bursting open and excited chatter in the hall. I’ve got a few years still to try to get my head back to that place where I felt complete without a child to raise. Even though they’ve been increasingly independent these last few years, when you’re still feeding them every day and picking up their dirty socks, you still feel like their parent. Now all I get to do for Steve is worry, and frankly, I feel a bit cheated.

I might soon miss the dirty socks.