Leaving Home
Leaving Home
Well, the day I have dreaded for the past eighteen years has finally arrived: my son is off to college. I am very proud of him, of course, and I’m sure he’ll do well, but the college he has chosen is in another city, and any way I look at it, he is leaving home.
I’m going to miss him terribly.
It’s hard to believe that this tall, thin, dark-haired, deep-voiced young man who is now packing his bags in his bedroom is the same person who, just a few years ago, was a small boy who used to hunker down in the vegetable garden with me and ask me all those serious questions about radishes and ladybugs. This young man, who is now well on his way to becoming an accomplished musician, and whose girlfriend struggles to fight back tears as she talks about how important it is they stay in touch during the coming months, used to fit into the crock of my arm where he would lie and giggle as I carried him around like a football. I find it all so amazing. How did he change so much, while I hardly changed at all?
As I watch him pack up his guitars and amplifiers, and dismantle the futon and cram books into boxes, I find myself thinking about the last time we went camping in Algonquin together. Was he really only fourteen years old then? I remember thinking how strong he was, and how willingly he put up with the rain and the bugs, the sand in the food and the heat of the portages. All that seems so remote now. Back then I was always there to pick him up and dust him off when he fell. Back then I could tell him to be careful of slippery rocks and low-hanging branches; I could watch out for him. Who’s going to look out for him now?
I want to give him some advice about going out into the world – something I haven’t already told him during all those talks of the last 18 years. But what? Eat well, get plenty of rest, don’t drink, don’t do drugs, work hard at school, respect yourself. I feel there are so many things I haven’t told him yet. I should have told him not to be too trusting, and yet not to be too distant from people; I should have shown him more of the world so he would have a better sense of who he is. I guess he will have to discover these things for himself. I regret the angry words I have spoken in haste over the years, the missed opportunities to look at family pictures, the times I brought work home instead of reading a book or watching a movie with him. I wonder if he will be all right.
What I really want to say is “be safe.” And in my heart I want to say that the best way for him to be safe is to stay home.
But of course I can’t say that. I can’t hold him back from going out into the world, a world which has much beauty and delight in it, but which also has so much heartache and sorrow. Even if he did stay home, I can’t protect him from all that. All I can hope is that I have done my bit to prepare him as best I can. The time has come to let him go, I suppose, and then spend the rest of my life with my fingers crossed.
What I can do is do his laundry for him before he leaves, something I always insisted he do for himself so he would know how when the day came to move out – the day which is now here. I can iron his shirts for him so he will look nice as he heads out, and I can wash his sheets so he will have a clean bed waiting for him when he comes home for visits. I can pack a couple of boxes of food so he will have something to eat, and I can make sure he always has enough money for the train home.
But beyond that, I don’t suppose there is much more for me to do except hug him, wish him luck, tell him I love him, and then hang on tight to those memories as I let him go.
Well, the day I have dreaded for the past eighteen years has finally arrived: my son is off to college. I am very proud of him, of course, and I’m sure he’ll do well, but the college he has chosen is in another city, and any way I look at it, he is leaving home.
I’m going to miss him terribly.
It’s hard to believe that this tall, thin, dark-haired, deep-voiced young man who is now packing his bags in his bedroom is the same person who, just a few years ago, was a small boy who used to hunker down in the vegetable garden with me and ask me all those serious questions about radishes and ladybugs. This young man, who is now well on his way to becoming an accomplished musician, and whose girlfriend struggles to fight back tears as she talks about how important it is they stay in touch during the coming months, used to fit into the crock of my arm where he would lie and giggle as I carried him around like a football. I find it all so amazing. How did he change so much, while I hardly changed at all?
As I watch him pack up his guitars and amplifiers, and dismantle the futon and cram books into boxes, I find myself thinking about the last time we went camping in Algonquin together. Was he really only fourteen years old then? I remember thinking how strong he was, and how willingly he put up with the rain and the bugs, the sand in the food and the heat of the portages. All that seems so remote now. Back then I was always there to pick him up and dust him off when he fell. Back then I could tell him to be careful of slippery rocks and low-hanging branches; I could watch out for him. Who’s going to look out for him now?
I want to give him some advice about going out into the world – something I haven’t already told him during all those talks of the last 18 years. But what? Eat well, get plenty of rest, don’t drink, don’t do drugs, work hard at school, respect yourself. I feel there are so many things I haven’t told him yet. I should have told him not to be too trusting, and yet not to be too distant from people; I should have shown him more of the world so he would have a better sense of who he is. I guess he will have to discover these things for himself. I regret the angry words I have spoken in haste over the years, the missed opportunities to look at family pictures, the times I brought work home instead of reading a book or watching a movie with him. I wonder if he will be all right.
What I really want to say is “be safe.” And in my heart I want to say that the best way for him to be safe is to stay home.
But of course I can’t say that. I can’t hold him back from going out into the world, a world which has much beauty and delight in it, but which also has so much heartache and sorrow. Even if he did stay home, I can’t protect him from all that. All I can hope is that I have done my bit to prepare him as best I can. The time has come to let him go, I suppose, and then spend the rest of my life with my fingers crossed.
What I can do is do his laundry for him before he leaves, something I always insisted he do for himself so he would know how when the day came to move out – the day which is now here. I can iron his shirts for him so he will look nice as he heads out, and I can wash his sheets so he will have a clean bed waiting for him when he comes home for visits. I can pack a couple of boxes of food so he will have something to eat, and I can make sure he always has enough money for the train home.
But beyond that, I don’t suppose there is much more for me to do except hug him, wish him luck, tell him I love him, and then hang on tight to those memories as I let him go.
posted by Millie Beagle at 6:53 pm
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