Lee Woodruff's 'real life" touches 'Those We Love Most'-USA Today, 9/5/12
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I'd love to hear your stories, advice, thoughts on sending a child off to college. This will be my first time and I'm going to do a segment on Good Morning America in August. It's going to be a piece on good advice from other Moms-- so please write me if you have some tips on what you bought that was useful, how you handled yourself when you dropped him or her off...... all of it!!! The good , the bad, the emotional and the ugly.
I woke up yesterday grumpy. That's right. Grumpy. It was graduation day for my son. Almost 18 years of mothering and in some ways, according to custom, it was all supposed to culminate in this. The ceremony, the cap and gown, the beaming face. Lets set aside the fact that it has been the rainiest month I can remember since my twins were born 9 years ago. Rain gets to you after a while. You want to see sunshine on a graduation day. But here was the sort of astonishing thing. As I sat at the ceremony-- my butt planted on the cold , hard concrete of the outdoor football bleachers, the thoughts that ran through my head weren't ones of motherly pride and contentment. Instead, all of the lingering dialogue that rang inside my head called everything that I had ever done as a mother into question. Had I been a good enough mother? I began to silently panic, as I regretted my previous smugness at a job well done. I realized it was too late. As I listened to the well-crafted speech from the valedictorian, the perky delivery from the saludatorian, the essay contest winner, I thought to myself. Did I make my son work hard enough? Should we have had those "word of the day" calendars by the toilet? What about his SAT words, was his vocabulary good enough? As I relaxed into the beautiful piano medley from my friend's son and the solo vocal accompaniment, I felt fingers of failure creep up my back. Should I have MADE them take piano lessons longer, insisted that he stay in the church choir? What about acting, he never really got exposed to that. And art, I knew he didn't exhibit much talent in that area, but maybe I hadn't done enough puzzles with him as a child? As I stared at the roster of childrens' names who were graduating, many had awards and scholarships next to their name. Had I not known my son could apply for these? In all the overhwleming mail and emails from the high school, had I missed something? Could he have won some special award, a commendation that would set him up for a life-time of success? What I realized, as I laughed at myself later, was that this wasn't about my son. For eighteen years, my son had gradually nudged me toward mothering him. He had self-selected the things he liked to do, his strengths and weaknesses, his interests and non-interests. It was me who was at sea here; me who was watching her little boy as he sat, figeting in the funny black gown and absurd mortarboard, it was me who didnt want to let him go. I was the one trying to make peace that after this simple ceremony, with all these wonderful and accomplished friends of his, I would be letting a little piece of him slip away. This was one more shred of evidence that my son had defined himself, set out his perameters, defined his profile in the world as he took one large step away from the nest. The rain held off until the ceremony was just about over. The kids threw their hats in the air. There was hugging and photos and smiles and a sprinkle of tears here and there. And I as I walked across the turf field toward the high school for some punch and cookies, a little of the grumpiness broke loose and washed away. It was me, I realized, who didn't want to give him up, who wasn't quite done mothering him, who still wanted to polish an edge, find a new skill, hear another story, to gain more insight into that often quiet son. But now I would have to be ready. He was ready. And no matter how far he roamed, I'd always be his mom -- perfect or imperfect as my mothering was.
So here I am. I'm at our lake house and its soggy. I've said yes to my kid that as part of his graduation present he can bring friends up here. Girls and boys. Somehow we set a limit and somehow, in the effort not to hurt certain people's feelings, he exceeded that limit without checking with me. As the rain pours down and the TV blares with the cheesy R rated movie they've rented, the septic system groans with overuse and I try desperately not to pick up each tortilla chip as it drops on the carpet-- trying to pretend I'm rolling with this, I will the time to speed ahead. They are all going out for pizza in the nearest town soon. I can't wait. I have kept my mouth silent as they used the new fluffy expensive bath towels for beach towels in the absence of me being there to direct them. The damage is done-- they are already in the dirty sand-- what good will looking like a harpie do now? And as I sit now, with time to relfect, to write a little and catch up on the emails I seem never to be able to wrestle on top of, I reflect that its awfully quiet. I like this. Yes, no Mom craves to be in a house on a rainy night with a half-classroom of teenagers. They certianly don't want me here either. But now, all this quiet-- quiet enough to hear the rain on the roof --this is what it will feel like sometimes when he is gone. Next year when my son heads off to college, althoug there are still three girls at home, I will feel the absence. It will be its own kind of silence. Why is there no middle ground? This age seems like its all or nothing. All of them coming at you full-throttle or gone.... out for the night as you hope to catch snatches of meaningful conversation at a dinner table somewhere. Eighteen years of raising him and yes, it seems to have gone fast, but it also feels like 18 years. I can remember all the iterations like a photo collage in my mind;s eye. I went to wake him the other morning and I just began sobbing--- i just saw it all telescoped together like a deck of cards being shuffled by a dealer. My son was instantly awake, alert, worried at my sobbing. I should have been using this tactic for years now to get him up. "Nothing is wrong," I sniffed. 'I'm just thinking I only have about six weeks left to do this," I said, ruffling his hair. "I'll always come home," he said to me in a kind, little boy voice. "And I love you," he added, looking right in my eyes and holding my gaze. I'll carry that moment with my son in my heart for a long time; through four years of college and as he moves on to take his first job, find a girl, settle down and have kids of his own. I don't get the chance to look inside my son's heart as often as I like. But I saw it that morning, shining bright and clean and constant-- love -- the best gift I could have given him. Even if I can't wait for him and his friends to leave the house on a rainy day.
July 2, 2009