It’s not my first rodeo. Or even my second. This is not the first of my children to leave for college.
It’s my eighth. I’ve done this before; I know how it goes. Last time, I even thought I was getting good at it. Of course, last time, the child to go was extremely organized and very focused on making a home away from home — she had all the boxes packed and labeled and ready to roll weeks in advance. And she was setting up this new home only 45 minutes from our home.
This time, it’s all different. This time, home away from home will be in Scotland. This time, the student has spent hours poring over both academic and travel opportunities. But she seems loath to pack up her life and roll it away.
The reality is that every child is different. I know this, deep in my bones. I know that each child brings a unique piece to our family puzzle, and when they go, they leave a hole only they can fill. There will be a silence in the house at night, where once this child’s feet stepped heavy on the stairs. There will be no giggling and murmuring in the room above mine as she shares with her sisters late into the night. There will no longer be three girls — the one just returned from her college adventure and the two teenagers — cajoling me for keys to go thrifting, to go for froyo, to go play pickleball. It will no longer be the three of them — the little girls — just as they’ve always been. No. This time, with this child, a very substantial thread will be pulled from the middle. This one is going far away, so we aren’t consoling ourselves with the promise of football weekends or fall break or even Thanksgiving. It will be winter before we see her again. I’m so sad to see her go.
At the same time, I’m so proud of her courage, of her accomplishment. So, I set about trying to inspire the packing, to get past the heaviness and on to the adventure. I think about the things that don’t go in the trunks and can’t be folded among the sweaters.
I can’t pack the conversation on the way to rehearsal, all the ways I’ve pondered life with my girls during years of 20-minute drives, to the soundtrack of Taylor Swift. I can’t pack the smell of late-night baking while they sing show tunes in the kitchen. This time around, I can’t even pack kitchen tools or a thoughtfully chosen apron. This girl is packing very little and flying across an ocean.
So, I stitch silent prayers into a new raincoat and a fresh pair of “wellies,” or rainboots. I tuck whispered hopes into thoughtfully chosen sweaters. I remind myself that they leave, and they come home again.
But this is not my first time. This time I know.
It won’t be the same. It will never be now again.
I remember that I’ve learned hard lessons about the children left behind. Just one this time — my littlest girl, the one who never got to welcome a sibling and only ever has said goodbye. I am determined that this time, in my grief, I will not lose sight of hers. And I will be sure that she knows that my sorrow over one child leaving does not mean that she is not enough to fill my heart and my home. Instead, together, we’ll acknowledge the shift, and we’ll figure out our new rhythm. We’ll welcome the opportunity to learn a new dance.
Maybe she can even teach me to sing.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
