From September 4, 1997: Daughter also finds parting bittersweet
Today’s piece is seasonal, reflecting this time of year,
when parents drop their kids off at
college, to start a new life or continue
the new life they started a year or two ago.
My bride and I have gone through that with our two daughters, and many of our friends and family have done the same with their kids. It’s not an uncommon situation for families, of course. But it absolutely is memorable for all concerned. Even historic, in the familial sense.
On Saturday, I’ll share another piece about our experiences over the years; I bet you can relate at some level with one or both of these columns.
Today’s piece was originally published in The Post-Crescent in Appleton/Fox Cities, Wisconsin on September 4, 1997, a few days after we dropped off our oldest daughter at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse.
___________________________________________________________________________
They carried furniture to her room. They set up her computer. They offered suggestions. They unloaded boxes.
They offered to run errands. They got frustrated when it was obvious that she wanted them to go. They waited for her to tell them how much she loved them.
They peeked for the first tear to drip down her cheeks. They stood by for her hug, when she would tell them what a firm foundation she had been given, how she’d never stray from the straight and narrow, how she hopes to raise her kids as well as she was raised.
They never got those. But they didn’t have to.
She was in college, and they had to go home.
Eventually.
But not yet, not now. Not if they could help it.
Her father showed her something on the computer, but her attention was elsewhere. Her mother suggested a few ways of arranging the room she shares with two friends, but she didn’t want to hear it.
You’ve seen the look before.
It’s that “pretend to listen while staring at your shoes” look.
And you’ve heard that “uh huh” before. You explain something to someone who really doesn’t care to listen but doesn’t want to be impolite.
Like, “So, you insert the spent nuclear fuel rods in the microwave, turn it on high for 50 minutes, and call the FBI before the western half of the state goes up in a mushroom cloud. OK?” “Uh huh.”
It’s that “please leave” look.
That “God, you bore me” way of saying “uh huh.”
She was right, of course. It was the day for them to drop her off, and cut the cord.
They just didn’t want to.
She had fulfilled her requirements at home for 18 years, six months and four days.
She got so she could clean the downstairs bathroom, scoop
dog poop from the lawn, babysit for any number of kids, juggle three phone
conversations, hold down four summer jobs, endure her younger sister, and get
decent grades.
She had made them proud.
And now it was time for them to go. She had a life to live.
She got impatient.
She walked ahead of them on the way to the student convocation in the football stadium.
Her father took her aside, and in so many words, asked her to give them a few more minutes. It’s an emotional day, he told her.
She calmed down.
After the convocation, they returned to her room, but there was nothing left to do. Except leave.
They crossed the parking lot to the minivan, all carrying
an empty box or suitcase to bring back home.
“I guess it’s time,” she said, grinning. She hugged her mother, and her mother squeezed back, for minutes, it seemed. They had been very close through the years, and had grown to respect each other.
They had talked about everything, and developed the kind of relationship every mother wants with her daughter.
Her mother sobbed, but the girl only smiled. “I’ll be fine,” she said.
Her father’s eyes watered as he watched, and a lump almost clogged his throat. “I don’t want you to stay,” he told her as they hugged tightly. “I’ll be fine,” she said.
Little sister took her turn.
With five years difference in age, they had not always been on the same page, but they had always been close when it counted.
It counted now.
The younger girl sobbed so hard she shook. “God, you’re going to make me cry,” said the older girl as they clung to each other. “I’ll be fine. So will you.”
The family has spoken with her every day since by phone, twice on Wednesday. Something bothered her father, something he had to find out when they spoke most recently.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Did you cry when we left the other day?”
“A little,” she said.
Yep, she’ll be fine.
Copyright 2023, Dan Flannery/The Sunday Column