The plan was flawless. I had rehearsed every word until the wee hours of the morning—specifically at 2:19 a.m. I envisioned myself standing heroically before my oldest son as we dropped him off at college. Picture this: I would stand there, arms gently outstretched, head tilted just so, pulling him close like a scene from a heartwarming movie. I would lovingly ruffle his hair as he looked up at me, his eyes filled with trust. With a serene smile—like I was in the middle of a yoga class—I’d say, “My wonderful boy, we are so proud of you. You’re going to shine this year. We love you dearly!”
Then a brief yet meaningful hug would ensue, just long enough to etch the moment in our memories. I imagined whispering, “Goodbye, my son!” before striding confidently back to our minivan, legs strong and steady, no looking back. I would exit with the dignified poise of a historical figure.
But then came drop-off day.
Our son led us to the car, and I knew this was it. I wanted to imbue him with warmth and wisdom, but instead, what came out was a frantic list of survival tips. “Use single-ply toilet paper; double-ply can clog!” I blurted, panic rising in my voice. “Get enough sleep or you’ll feel down. Remember to smile so you look like you’re enjoying yourself! And for goodness’ sake, don’t put your cups mouth-side down on the counter—germs, germs everywhere!”
He tried to escape my clutches but I wasn’t letting go. Did I stop there? No way! I launched into a full-on safety briefing like it was an emergency drill from years ago. “Don’t lend money! Always look over your shoulder when walking home alone—especially at night! Eat protein to keep the blues at bay. And shower regularly, because it’s a game-changer! Oh, and let me know if you need new clothes; I’ll send some your way!”
Then, in a moment of pure nostalgia, I collapsed into him, just like when he was a tiny four-month-old, clinging to my arms as he tried to escape his baby bathtub.
I couldn’t contain myself. My voice muffled against his shirt, I continued, “Read food labels! You’ve got vitamins in that white bin—don’t forget them! Change your toothbrush when it looks like a bristle monster. And drink lots of water! Keep a hat in your backpack—earmuffs just won’t cut it. You need an umbrella because, you know, Wisconsin weather is unpredictable! Don’t forget to move around a bit every hour, and if you think you need medical help, don’t hesitate—just go!”
A lump lodged itself in my throat, but I pressed on, almost in a frenzy. “Purell is your friend! Wet socks are a no-go! And be sure to see some greenery or blue every day—scurvy is a real thing!”
Amidst my verbal avalanche, my well-prepared send-off speech crumbled into chaos. It was now or never for the final farewell. I squared my shoulders and took a step back, ready to deliver my heartfelt wisdom. But instead, a crackled voice escaped my lips, sounding worse than a celebrity trying to sing in public.
Suddenly, the tears came—streaming down like a torrential downpour. I lunged for my son, and in a flood of emotion, I soaked his shirt while I clung to him, a weighted pendulum of love. I tried to articulate my thoughts, but all that came out was a croak.
“Mom, why are you crying?” he asked, bewilderment written all over his face.
As I buried my face in his neck, I wished I could convey everything I was desperate to say. I needed him to understand that my frantic advice was rooted in love—a manual for self-care because I wouldn’t be there to ensure he did things right. He has to be vigilant, safe, and healthy now that he’s stepping into this new world.
This beautiful boy, the one we’ve always believed in, is off to do great things, and we love him dearly. If only there were a way to translate my rambling into something simpler, it would say, “Your mom loves you so much that she turns into a fountain of anxiety!”
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Summary
This article humorously recounts the emotional chaos of dropping a child off at college, showcasing a parent’s desperate attempts to share wisdom and care through a flurry of advice. It emphasizes the love and concern that underlie these frantic messages, revealing the bittersweet nature of watching a child grow up and step into independence.