Months, weeks, days, minutes. It felt like another birth. My stomach even clenched with anticipation. I couldn’t wait for you to arrive.
And then you did. You greeted the dogs first. You met our new puppy, Auggie.
I stood. I watched. I waited.
You finally strode toward me. I hugged you with such intensity. One arm reached around your broad back. The other dabbed at (or dried) my damp cheeks.
My college freshman looked like he didn’t want to be back at home. (Twenty20 @nei.cruz)
After the long 12-hour drive, I sensed that you needed silence. What I didn’t realize was that I needed it, too. My brain had become noisy.
So, I slumped on the second step. My shoulders sagged in the stained, soft T-shirt. I didn’t care about the mosquitoes that flew through the open door. Usually, this would bug the heck out of me. I swatted one who gnawed at my calf.
As you, Zoe, and dad unpacked the van, I sat there staring. Processing. Pondering. I don’t think I blinked. I just wanted to soak it in.
It already seemed I’d missed a lifetime of growth with you. I know that sounds a bit “extra.” But that’s how it felt at the time.
Before you even said hello, my heart connected with yours. Words weren’t needed.
You have shifted. Your stride is bolder. Your effect is self-assured. I keep imagining peacock feathers fanning behind you.
You look like you don’t want to be here. You are agitated and annoyed. THIS I did not anticipate. I thought I’d prepared myself for this moment. But that’s like rehearsing for grief — you just can’t.
I knew it would be different. It should be. A day at college is like a year. The connection, comradery, and community are beyond words.
It was time for you to leave the nest. You were ready, and I was proud of you. I knew this experience would be extraordinary. Your bond with your peers would be like no other freshman class.
And here you are. Home in one piece. Not just healthy but robust and radiant. So why do I feel sad?
Your sister busted me. She spotted another tear trickling down my cheek. She notices everything. I often joke it’s like I live with a human periscope.
How could I explain these emotions to my sixteen-year-old daughter when I didn’t understand them myself?
I felt edgy, irritable, and confused the first few days you were home. I gave you space. I didn’t ask questions. I stifled and swallowed my frustration.
By the end of the week, I grew tired of your James Dean brooding demeanor. I lost it. We rarely fight, and my uncharacteristic combustion shocked me as well.
It was Thanksgiving. My favorite holiday. I felt a bit blue because our New York family couldn’t be with us for the first time in decades. The house seemed too empty, too quiet. I can’t remember (nor do I want to) what comment you made. Or maybe it was an eye roll or a nonchalant look? But it was maddening.
Where’s the joy? Why aren’t you happy to be home? What’s going on? These questions began as tiny kernels popped all over my head. And I couldn’t contain myself any longer.
Pointing my finger toward the door, I asked you to go outside with me. I might’ve even raised my voice. I used a few expletives. Honestly, I didn’t recognize myself. Your brown eyes, nearly identical to mine, staring at me in shock.
You don’t know what happened after our chat. I collapsed onto the chaise in my bedroom. I wept, wailed, and shook with scary intensity. I journaled in between wiping my nose. I felt melancholy. Dejected. My heart hurt. Where was the joy? You know those “we are reunited, and it feels so good” images that flash on social media and in movies?
Dad asked me to come down and watch the parade. He knows how much I love this silly but sentimental tradition. I flatly said no.
He finally came upstairs. I couldn’t even speak. The aftershocks of this motherhood earthquake surprised me. I told him to please leave me alone. Then my phone dinged, and the downpour ceased. I was depleted. The last thing I wanted to deal with was a stupid text.
I grudgingly grabbed the phone. And I’m so grateful I did. My son texted a heartfelt apology.
We wrote back and forth. We processed. We expressed ourselves honestly. And I finally joined everyone on the brown, weathered couch. I thought about how many memories we’d made in this room.
The parade was over. And so was my pity party. I watched the parade the next day by myself. Braising the brisket, I grinned as another massive float filled the tv screen. As I did, I thought how ironic that I was alone for the first time in months.
Tears have been replaced with smiles. We’ve gotten into a groove. We needed to reset and recalibrate. So, we did.
After deep reflection, I realized much of what we envision is not always reality. That’s one of the most apparent lessons I learned: Acceptance of what is (or is not).
I am grateful for my most excellent teachers — my two teens. Parenting them requires me to go inward. They make me a better person.
And to my son…you’ll always be my boy. You made me a mother, and being your mom, through all phases, is my life’s greatest gift and most humbling honor.
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