In a couple of days, Dr. SJ and I will pack up the Prius and head north. In the back seat, my youngest child, my son, will sit quietly, The trip will take about four hours, but it will feel like the blink of an eye. It all feels like a blink of an eye at the moment.
While it’s just the next step down a path that began 18 years ago, it’s a different one. I remember most of it, though a lot has blended into an amorphous mass. There were the afternoon naps when he fell asleep on my chest. The times we watched TV together, poking and kicking each other. The look he gave me when he needed to know I was there for him in Dallas, after a stunning loss at a fencing competition when he was used to winning. All along, I knew he was coming home with me. In the morning, I would find him asleep in his bed. They all look like angels when they’re asleep.
When we drove our daughter to college, it was the culmination of months of drama. Her emotional highs and lows grew like the pile of stuff she needed to bring with her. It was exhausting, the latest test of parenthood endurance. On the ride down, she informed us that this was a bad idea, and we should turn around and go home. We get her ice cream instead, and she survived.
The pile is about half the size this time. His needs are few. While I can tell he’s nervous, he would never admit it. But he’s exhilarated at the idea of independence, which both pleases me and breaks my heart. I raised him to be ready for this day, and yet there is a part of a dad that knows that he will be the victim of his own success.
When you’re young, 18 years seems like forever. As you slide past the middle of your life, you are acutely aware of how fiendish time is. It sucks you in when you’re most vulnerable and then rips your heart out after you’re hooked. New parents think the birth of their child is the first time the miracle ever happened. Later, you know that you are just like every other parent, not at all unique.
The ride will be ordinary, complaining about traffic and lousy drivers. Pointing out interesting cars along the way. Singing along with the radio, only to be told how awful my voice is. We’ll try to make conversation, and get a grunt in return. Things will pop into our head that we forgot to do, and my son will tell us it doesn’t matter or he doesn’t care. And he doesn’t.
We’ll find a place somewhere in Connecticut to stop for breakfast, and he’ll want bacon with his pancakes. He’ll make bacon jokes, just as he always does. It will be nothing out of the ordinary for him.
It’s not like I won’t see him soon enough, as hotel reservations are already made for parent’s visiting day in October. But it won’t be the same. He already has plans to go to Cern next summer for an internship, and it’s where he belongs. The place on the couch where he watched Saturday morning cartoons will be empty, though it still bears the scars of food that missed his mouth.
My plan of action is to carry his things to his room and help him set things up in whatever way makes him feel at home. We’ll be busy doing busy work, hashing out insignificant details as if they’re matters of life and death. In a few days, he’ll change everything anyway, as he creates his own world. Eventually, we will run out of things to put away. Dr. SJ will go through lists of things for him to remember to do, to which he will nod and ignore.
Then time will come to let go. Every parent who has dropped off his youngest child knows what will happen, and my experience will be no different. But this time it will be my turn. I will tell him I love him and that I’m so proud of him. I will look him in the eyes and remind him that if he needs anything, I’m here for him. He’ll tell me he knows.
He will let me hug him because he knows I won’t leave until he does. Then he will say “bye” and turn away, rushing off to the new, exciting things out there for him. I will watch for a moment, then turn away. Dr. SJ and I will walk back to the car slowly, knowing that we’ve done all we can to make him ready for the day and that we have no place else to go. It’s time for us to take the long drive home, and for him to start his own life. And I will join all the other fathers whose son has left home get on with his future.
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I always enjoy your writing, Scott. I enjoy it even more when you talk about your son, because I can identify. I’m about to take my 6.5 year old on a donut run into town as we wrap up our last summer weekend at the lake.
Time with our kids flies so insanely fast with so many moments that define who we are and who they will become. I like to think the key to life is identifying those moments and basking in them.
From everything I’ve read that you have written about your son, you have clearly done that.
Thanks, Murray. When I write about my son, I usually feel like a sappy old fool. You have no idea what I wouldn’t give to take my 6.5 year old son on one last donut run.
nice, Scott. Touching moment for all of us who’ve been there.
Thanks, Dennis. I feel like I’m paying the club dues.
Thanks for sharing that.
Going to hug my 3-year old son and get on the floor and play “conscruction” (construction) with blocks and trucks.
Never enough time.
Sounds like a great thing to play. Don’t forget the donut run. They’re never too young for a donut run.
Going to MIT, is he? And already has an internship at CERN? Bright kid. I have an amusing picture of CERN but unless you play Half Life you wouldn’t get it.
Doesn’t have the internship at CERN yet, but he plans to. After three years working at Cold Spring Harbor Lab, he’s ready for the Large Hadron (I spelled it with the “r” in the wrong place at first, and thought about leaving it that way).
Sir, good morning. It’s the touchy feely Posts like this one that has the tendency to remind folks that yes attorneys / lawyers do indeed have hearts and souls.
Dad to Dad, remember back in the day, as we like it or not, the first year (semester) is simply try-outs and about girls, girls & a few older women going wild. Scholastic probation is normal and it’s way too late for the talk. We sent photos of kids crying and herpes 1 & 2 to remind ours to be careful and thankfully it worked. *Good luck in your endeavors lil Greenfield, it’s gonna be one big bang and it’s over. On Gaurd! Thanks.
I am kvelling with you.
I can only hope he has as much fun in college as I did, herpes notwithstanding. Thanks, Thomas.
Thanks, Felicia. Hope all is well.
I still have a few years before we hit the empty nest. Not looking forward to that time at all.
Things change.
Two years and counting.
The first one is much easier than the last one. Just sayin’.
Too true.
My warmest congratulations to your son. And for you, my warmest thanks. Reading this, while my 3-month-old daughter sleeps on the floor, is an exercise which gives ample food for thought.
Thank you. One of my favorite memories is when I put my son down in one spot, and he was still there when I returned. In retrospect, I would stop him from crawling and walking for as long as possible. Only kidding. Sorta.
Build Me a Son
By General Douglas A. MacArthur
Build me a son, O Lord,
who will be strong enough to know when he is weak,
and brave enough to face him self when he is afraid;
one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat,
and humble and gentle in victory.
Build me a son whose wishbone will not be
where his backbone should be;
a son who will know Thee- and that
to know himself is the foundation stone of knowledge.
Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort,
but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenge.
Here, let him learn to stand up in the storm;
here, let him team compassion for those who fall.
Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goals will be high;
a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men;
one who will learn to laugh, yet never forget how to weep;
one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past.
And after all these things are his,
add, I pray, enough of a sense of humor,
so that he may always be serious,
yet never take himself too seriously.
Give him humility, so that he may always remember
the simplicity of true greatness,
the open mind of true wisdom,
the meekness of true strength.
Then I, his father, will dare to whisper,
“I have not lived in vain.”
Scott – Left my oldest at college yesterday (Pittsburgh) and it was one of the hardest things I eve had to do. Have three more to go and from reading your post it does not appear that it gets any easier. And if the first is easier than the last it is going to be awful when that time comes. Thanks for putting into words exactly how I was/am feeling.
The last was much harder than the first. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
Best of luck to yours. Hope he/she finds a home there.
Thanks.