It’s been a long three months since my son left for his first semester at college, and tonight, I can’t help but smile. The chaos of family life has returned; the sink is piled high with dinner dishes, and the washing machine is back to its usual groan. The refrigerator door has swung open and shut so many times that I fear we may need a new light bulb soon.
My son is doing well—he looks vibrant and content, and his eyes light up as he shares stories about life on campus. I soak in the sound of his laughter echoing through the kitchen, a sound that tugs at my heartstrings.
Gathered around the table, we ask him all the usual questions. His father inquires about classes and grades, while I can’t help but think of how just a week ago, he wasn’t here. The yogurt goes sour because he’s absent, the orange juice turns tart, and the bananas brown all due to his absence. After three months, I’m still struggling to shop for a household that doesn’t include him.
His first semester away has been everything he hoped for. He passes a mirror and mentions how his diet has shifted to less starch and more protein, with a grin that makes me want to remind him that looking good is easy at 19. He’s solid and strong, his hugs feel like wrapping my arms around a sturdy tree. When I ask him about his sleep and overall well-being, he replies with enthusiasm, mentioning that he’s been working hard and meeting amazing new people.
I remember back when he started kindergarten, all those years ago. He would come home bursting with excitement, sharing every detail about his day. The joy on his face was contagious, but it also hit me hard—my child was embarking on a journey that would include parts of his life without me.
Time is a relentless force. It seems we’re not even aware of how quickly the years pass, but our memories and mementos tell the story. I see the green footstool I painted for him, still occupying the same corner, a stark reminder of how things have changed.
Now, it’s hard not to ask, “Tell me everything!” I wait for moments when it’s just the two of us to ask about his haircut, if there’s a great pasta place nearby, and whether he felt strange on his first night away from home.
- “Are your boots warm enough?”
- “Do you use a buddy system when you go out? Please say yes.”
- “Why don’t I ever see pictures of you wearing a hat? Do you need another one?”
If I know these little details, I can picture him better during the times he’s not here. I can imagine him at different hours of the day.
Things feel different now. The duffel bag in his room is a constant reminder that he’s only visiting, and I have to pause to think about that—my child is just here for a visit.
I watch him as he shares stories about his new life, and I’m pleasantly surprised by my reaction. I always believed, without a doubt, that when he left, I would be lost. I envisioned myself wandering aimlessly, struggling to adapt to life without one of my children. But instead, I’m filled with joy for him, relieved that he’s thriving, and grateful for his happiness. I feel this surge of love mixed with a lump in my throat. He’s home, but not in the same way he once was, and somehow, I’m okay with that. The power of love is astonishing, able to overshadow the ache I thought I would feel.
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In summary, while my son’s visits are brief, they are filled with joy and laughter. The transition to this new phase of life has been bittersweet, but ultimately, it’s a journey of growth for both of us.
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