It’s been a long four months away. My firstborn is home tonight from his first semester at college, and I can’t stop smiling. I sing a song as I gather up the dinner dishes in the sink, and I hear the washer groan from his piles of laundry being done.
My son has opened and closed the refrigerator door enough times tonight that I think he’ll burn out the light bulb. “Mom, there’s so much good stuff in here!” he says, laughing. I’ve run to the store twice today to make sure all of his favorites are here waiting for him.
We have missed my firstborn son
My son looks healthy and happy and comes alive when he talks of his new life. His voice fill the kitchen, and his laugh grips my heart so hard I forget to breathe.
I have missed him. Our entire family sits around him, asking our questions. His father asks him about classes and grades. The younger brothers want to know about the dorms. I want to ask, “Are you sleeping enough? Is the food good? Did you take your warm sweater? Socks, what about socks?” but hold back.
He changes so much about our life when he’s home. The yogurt no longer turns sour because he’s home, the orange juice doesn’t go tart, and the bananas won’t turn brown for the same reason. I buy too much at the store, as I still haven’t been able to adjust to shopping for a household that doesn’t hold him in it.
It’s been a good first semester away from home. School is everything he hoped it would be. Later, when he passes a mirror, he tells me he’s been eating less starch and more protein, and don’t I think this looks good on him? I stop myself from saying how easy it is to look good when you’re 19. He’s solid, strong, proud, and hugging him feels like you’re encircling a tree.
When I ask how he’s feeling, he says great. He adds that he’s working hard, too, and meeting the coolest people. His mood is bright and his eyes dance with the details of his new life.
Time rushes past
Once, years ago, I had a hint of what this part of his life, one without me, would be like. It was when he had just started kindergarten and was still so little, to my eyes. But when I picked him up after four hours solo, he was unstoppable bubbling over with news of projects, books, and what the teacher had taught him that day. His face was full of joy, but my realizing his life was now going to contain parts without me struck me cold and hard. Until then, I had never believed what the sweet old ladies had whispered to me, “The time goes so fast!”
Time does rush past. It doesn’t seem like we are part of the years that we’re in, but when we look around us, we see the souvenirs from along the way. In the bathroom upstairs, I see the foot stool I painted green for him because he couldn’t reach the sink. How is it that it still occupies the same corner—as if it will ever go back to its original purpose?
Later that night, I wait until we have time alone to ask him where he gets his hair cut, and if it felt strange the first night he wasn’t home?
I have so many questions.
“Are your boots warm enough?”
“Do you use a buddy system when you go out? Never mind, just say yes.”
“Why don’t I ever see pictures of you with a hat on? Do you need another one?”
See, if I know the answer to the small things, then I can see him clearly in the days he’s not here. I can envision 9:01 or 2:50 or 11:09.
My child is just visiting
Things are different for all of us now. The duffel bag on the floor of his room reminds me whenever I walk past that this is a visit. My child is just visiting.
He talks about the life he has now, the one that’s only his. I am amazed at how well I take it. I was always certain, a million-dollar-bet certain, that when he left, I would be lost. I pictured myself walking in circles, befuddled, needing to learn a new way to live with one of my children gone. Instead, I’m thrilled for him, relieved that he’s adapted, grateful that he is happy. I feel all of these things at the same time as I feel the lump that rises in my throat.
He’s home, but not in the same way he was home his first 18 years and I’m okay. My love for him is able to override what I thought I would one day feel after he left. I am not lost. I feel his joy.
Tonight, my child is home, and it so good to have the miles disappear.
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What NOT to Say to Your College Student When They’re Home for the Holidays
