[ I wrote this six months ago, before my son left for college.]
I haven’t been sleeping at night. A sign keeps flashing, “He’s leaving in three weeks.” Soon it will be two.
We wrestled and puzzled, the three of us, with the idea of him going away. There were excellent schools locally. And he didn’t “necessarily want to leave,” he said. He was still recovering from the terrible illness that involved two trips to the ER, a painful lumbar puncture, and weeks spent flat on his back where the cobweb in the corner gave him something to focus on. (He told me that later when I tried to swipe it away with a rag. That just about killed me). Three months of his senior year of high school were spent on independent study, and he fought to get through his graduation speech. Steve and I are still suffering from what I think is a form of extreme anxiety in the aftermath. My brain chemistry seems to have been altered from nights of gut-clenching, mind-numbing worry. Everyone knows that a new parent doesn’t sleep at night, but I’m not sleeping either. My friend who tells me not to fret, to hand those thoughts over because they won’t affect the outcome–I wish I could do that. I just can’t. My brain’s worry center just won’t turn off.
How exactly do we send him four hundred miles away? We’ve talked the subject over ad nauseam, the three of us. The school he’s going to is a magical-feeling place where he’ll meet his people–smart, goofy kids like him, bent on saving the world through science. He’ll connect with others who think the idea of spending the hottest days of summer wearing Army surplus coveralls (complete with sewn-on Ghostbusters patch), motorcycle helmet, and gauntlet gloves to smelt aluminum cans in a homemade backyard casting forge just to make a belt buckle is a great idea. (How is that not a win?)
Steve and I know intellectually it’ll be good for him to be away in a place where he will have to figure things out, problem solve, and grow into adulthood without the cushion of us. But we also know that it won’t be any good for us either.
When he was born, Steve cut the cord. He told me it felt much more sinewy and tough than he’d expected. But the invisible cord remains, binding us close. These last few weeks of summer, we’ve taken nightly walks with our silly dog, Echo. The three of us talk about everything under the sun. Steve and I watch as our boy runs wildly with his dog over the grass, laughing, returning to his boyhood self of ten years old. In many ways he hasn’t changed. He still looks down, watching the sidewalk, for worms and bugs that need to be removed to safety. And he does this with the patience of a scientist, slowly and methodically. This summer, when he hasn’t been smelting aluminum, he’s spent time recuperating, designing custom T-shirts using stencils he cuts from freezer paper and then bleaches. He watches videos on physics and world politics as he rests–because he has to feed that brain. And this is how he has always been.
As his parents, we know that all of the work he’s done–those long nights of study and preparation, and his impossible schedule–it’s led him up to this point. We know that we have to let him go so he can be the well-formed person he is supposed to be. But we also know that the long drive home is going to be terribly sad. We are simply not ready. I know I will worry about him eating and sleeping. (Those two things–he has to promise us that he will sleep and he will eat because I know the lure of experiencing the wonders around him will always win out over those two boring basic biological necessities.)
It is just going to be hard, not having him here. The invisible cord has to stretch four hundred miles and not break. It simply has to. And I don’t know when I’ll get a good night’s rest again.