Finding the right dose
Communicating with a college student
We saw Z on Friday night. He had texted me with a list of things he needed. I told him I could put everything in the mail or drive it up to him. He asked if we could come up and take him out for dinner on Friday. I, of course, agreed, thrilled that he wanted to see us for a sustained amount of time. Because it’s hard to know how much to communicate. In the past 9 days, he has called twice. I’ve called once when a text conversation just felt like it would be easier if we spoke. Of course, I want to text him every day, to ask him about each class after they happen, know what he ate for every meal, learn about the people he has met, the activities he is doing, what made him decide to eat breakfast when he has skipped it for several years.
But I don’t.
I know that part of this transition is allowing him to direct the communication, to set the rhythm. That my job as his parent now is to let him figure out his own routine, to grow into this life he is now building. Kelly Corrigan, on the podcast A Slight Change of Plans, describes the way she had to reframe how she thought about her relationship to her college-age daughters:
You don't belong to me. I'm not responsible for you. I don't own you. Your life is none of my business. You may share as much or as little as you like. I shouldn't have an opinion about everything, what you wear, who you date, how your hair is, what your major is, what job you take, what are you doing this summer? So I'm just a person who's crazy about you. That's who I am. But I am not a parent in the way that I have always defined that word.
Even typing that out makes me tearful. While I, too, hold this view of my relationship with Z, it still breaks my heart in ways I can barely articulate. Sure, in many ways, we have been transitioning toward this over the past several years. I knew less and less about where he was going and with whom. Many of his friends didn’t even get named, just a “you don’t know them,” when I queried. But he still came home every night. Still ate the majority of his dinners with us. Still was here. In this house. Unless he was away, I saw him every day. To go from that to college where I’ve seen him for a few hours, heard his voice for less time, gotten texts when he has a question. Oof. No way around it, it just hurts my mama heart.
I remind myself over and over that this has always been the goal. I just never had time to think about it until it was almost here. Parenting is a very mindful role. You might think wistfully, longingly about the time when you don’t have someone asking you to drive them to work, take them to a friend’s, buy this or that, but for the most part, you are too busy to think about much beyond the present and immediate future.
I also know what happens when parents don’t do this. When they continue on as if they have the same right to direct and know your life, treat you as if you are still a child in their home instead of an emerging adult. That kind of narcissism causes damage that ripples out and takes years to work through. I wouldn’t do that to my children.
And so, as I try to stay in my lane and let Z set the course, I am finding myself still tender, still vulnerable. I quietly choked on my sadness when my mom asked me how I was doing without Z at home. I know she would’ve understood the tears, but sometimes, it’s just not the right time for sobbing. I didn’t expect my eyes to well up in the grocery store when I passed by food I wouldn’t be buying anymore. Naturally, that pent up sadness turned to irritation as the grocery store was already a zoo. I’ve cried when I open up google maps to get directions and his avatar isn’t sitting on top of mine at home. It’s off the map, 18 miles from home.
This is grief. I know it well. I am familiar with its course and this is still early stages. It’s a strange kind of grief, because he is 35 minutes away from me. I could hear his voice tonight or tomorrow or next week. I could see him in 35-40 minutes. But I won’t. I am not sure when any of these things will happen. The grief is mourning the relationship we had while still trying to figure out what is next. It’s loss with ambiguity, not a combination most humans like. Especially not this one. Of course, added to that soup is the pride, the excitement, the thrill, the hope for what this means for him. This is one of the most exhilarating opportunities of his 18 years—a whole new beginning.
We will adjust. Z will figure out what dose of home and Mom and Dad and brothers and support and reminders of who he has been he needs to continue moving forward.
Because he is doing great.
Of course, it’s only a little over a week in. But by all accounts, Z and college are getting along splendidly.
And in the end, that’s all I really want.
So, pack up your car, put a hand on your heart
Say whatever you feel, be wherever you are
We ain't angry at you, love
You're the greatest thing we've lostThe birds will still sing, your folks will still fight
The boards will still creak, the leaves will still die
We ain't angry at you, love
We'll be waitin' for you, loveAnd we'll all be here forever
~Noah Kahan