It’s time for my son to fly south for the winter.

My eldest son leaves for college tomorrow.  Moving from California to Texas.  During the days, I’ve been enjoying time with him, purging and packing his room, buying and preparing for the dorm, and spending time with him.  We are having so many great moments together, like last week when we went to the beach to stop at a surf shop that has been a family favorite for three generations, and to eat at our favorite hole in the wall.  During the evening, most nights we eat dinner as a family, like tonight when we grilled and swam together, and he then leaves to be with his friends for many “last night to hang out with . . . “ as his friends peel off to their various colleges.  During the day and the evening, I’m happy.

I have moments of emotion that come softly, and occasionally I’ll have the “big feels” as my therapist friend calls them.  These moments are expected, but they still surprise me, like the time at our corner breakfast burrito place that we eat at way more often than is dignified, when my husband and two younger sons and I were sitting in a booth for four (unusual, since we are usually 5 and we don’t fit) and Ben wasn’t with us.  I began to ask our two younger boys about spring break next year. As the words “Ben won’t be with us for spring break, so it will just be the four of us . . .” came out of my mouth, I began to cry, and then sob, with what felt like projectile tears in this booth in this restaurant.  (And you have to know that I am a rare crier, so this was a moment.)  It surprised me that I felt it so much.  And the feeling was sadness, grief even.

But typically, aside from occasional moments where these “feels” well up and surprise me, during the day and evening, I’m happy and good and excited for him and so at peace.  I’m thoughtful not to make this about us and how much we will miss him, but about him and how he’s ready for this so that he can fly away without the weight of having to hold our sadness.  He’s an amazing kid who is strong, resilient, can solve problems, and is pretty good at taking care of himself.  He’s chosen a school that is a great fit for him and it’s where my husband and I went to school so we have many friends and family that he knows nearby.   We’ve taught him how to do most things he will need to know to live independently.  He’s spent 9 summers at sleepaway camp for 4-7 weeks, where he’s gone for weeks into the wilderness and handling the challenges nature throws at him (including bears!)  He can handle this.

 But what happens at night is not always so peaceful for me.  For a few nights last week, I woke up several times with my brain in overdrive thinking of all the things I need to tell him, and make sure he knows, so he can take care of himself in all the big and little ways we still help take care of him.  I wake up with tension in my jaw and I wake up anxious.   I’m curious about the anxiety and chaos, and remember that the last time I felt anxious like this was following the unexpected death of my father and something about this feels familiar, though under such different circumstances.  Now, I wake up anxious and buzzing with a million insignificant things he “needs to know”, (although a couple of them are significant—like making sure he knows not to run a car in an enclosed space!).  When I wake up and listen to what is inside of me and I assure myself that he can learn or figure out anything he needs to know just like I did (asking other people, calling parents, learning by doing and making mistakes) and now, in addition, via text and YouTube (which is great for learning how to get stains out, but why kid myself, he won’t be doing stain removal).  The anxiety softens and quiets and I know my kid has got this. (And, I will be making lists of all things I want to make sure he knows. Does he know to tip generously? Does he know you can’t leave clothes in the washer for hours before you put them in the dryer? Does he know to eat the BRAT—bananas, rice, applesauce, toast—diet instead of spicy Tex-Mex when he’s dealing with GI issues?)

I know I will get to keep parenting him and teaching him things.  And then what is left when I can clear the distraction of the “what else do I need to do and what if he doesn’t know . . . “ anxiety buzzing, is just that I’m going to miss him.  That I know that this is an end of an era.  That the dinner table won’t be the same without his humor and with his spot at the table empty.  That tonight will be the last night all five of us sleep under our roof when he lived at home.  Future nights of us all sleeping here will be when he’s visiting.  What is left is grief.  Good grief.

How wonderful that we’ve had the gift of him in our everyday lives for 18 years and that we enjoy him so much that he is going to be missed so much.  I’ve told him that he will likely feel a bit lonely and down and nervous and lost because he is leaving all he has known to do something totally new, and that he will really miss his close friends, and our dog, and us, and that this is normal and healthy.  And now I am telling myself this too.  About me feeling it.  So, I feel it.  Allow myself to feel it.  Almost, almost, even welcome it and befriend it.  I sit with it, and as I do, I am flooded with gratitude to have gotten to parent this boy and that we get to be part of his journey.  I’m even grateful for the sadness because I love this boy so much and when I say yes to the sadness, the anxiety falls away and then I can move to gratitude and then to enjoyment of these last days, and then to full joy and excitement for him about what is to come.  Especially when I can tell myself that my California boy is just flying south for the winter and he’ll be back.