It was that time of year again, when kids go off to college. I was witnessing hysterical mothers all around me, crying at Starbucks, breaking down on the treadmill at my gym. I know that particular meltdown. It’s different from, “I can’t pay the bills,” or “We are about to lose our house,” or “I can no longer fit into my fat pants!”
My son left last year. I was surprised and quietly proud of keeping it all together. I was more focused on the preparation of it all. I had seen the college, loved the college, felt quite cozy by then in the low-rent Marriott where I stayed near his college. I bought him some clothes I thought he might need that go beyond his typical wardrobe of boxers and T-shirts. His father went all out and bought him the most high-tech computer I’d ever seen, a computer so sleek I thought it might have transporting powers. No one had given much thought to the actual packing; so his stepdad—maybe it was the Boy Scouts, or his yearlong stint in the army—somehow managed to pack everything this kid owned and eighty pounds worth of books into two suitcases.
I had attended a workshop at his high school just to be sure I was emotionally prepared for my firstborn to move out, move on, and start his life. The small windowless room above the school library was filled with red-faced women. Sobbing. A few were hysterical. I felt nothing but embarrassment for them. We went around the room to discuss our feelings. One woman couldn’t get any words out, the monitor kept telling her to take her time. By now I just wanted to flee. Her kid was going to a college four miles from her house and not even leaving his room! When it got to me, I was handed a wand (which was really a fat oak branch); some ritual the monitor felt necessary for us women. I tapped the branch on my knee. “Frankly, it’s about time. When I went off to college, my mother didn’t even notice. She realized I was gone about two years later when she was looking for one of my favorite jackets.” I passed the wand. They all stared at me, a stare I was so familiar with by now. It said, “Who is the freak and who let her in ... and who the hell is her kid?”
Here is the thing. I have what is called DRR. Delayed Reaction Response. For example, when I had my second wedding, a big weekend affair, followed by an elaborate honeymoon, I didn’t really realize I was married until this man I married referred to me as his wife at a work function. I looked around, then behind me for this wife, until realizing that was me.
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