A Near-Life Experience

Today my son, my baby, went away to college. I, a heart-on-the-sleeve type known for shedding tears at something as innocuous and impersonal as roadkill, was dry-eyed as he drove away. Some of you who know what Andrew has been up to since July will chalk this up to the fact that I "processed" all the feelings attendant on my baby child leaving home back when he went to boot camp, then tech school. This college thing is just a continuation of that; right? He left home months ago and has just been a visitor on occasion since then. Or, one might reason, he's the fourth of four children to leave home and after a while you just get used to it. It's not like I'm a novice at seeing my children pack up comforters and toiletries and clothing and laptops, cram everything into their vehicles, and leave home to seek higher education.

I've watched our three daughters leave dozens of times after summer vacations and semester breaks and so forth; it's old hat and I don't get misty-eyed anymore over them either. Erica drove away on Saturday to begin her final collegiate weeks, which will include student teaching, before graduation in May; I said simply "Love you ... bye." Or, wait ... did I remember to say "Love you" ... ? To my shame I honestly can't recall. I know I said, "Call me when you get there," and of course she did. Years ago I used to keep in touch with the girls at various points during the time they'd be in their cars, just "checking" on them. I don't do that anymore. For one thing they seem to resent it, and for another, once they've left I honestly don't think about it that much. One of the last things Erica said before she left on Saturday was, "I'm a grown woman. I'll figure it out." This in response to some small problem we were discussing. And sure enough, she figured it out. With precious little of my valuable assistance or input.

All four of my children were born in the same hospital, delivered by the same doctor, attended by the same nurses, between September of 1980 and March of 1989. I can still hear my doctor, a bite-sized Korean man possessed of a Zen-like calm who was not known for animated communication of any variety, exclaiming: "You've got your boy!" the moment Andrew was born. I looked up at Greg, who was wearing a surgical mask, and saw his wide hazel eyes grow bright with tears. What happy days those were! The girls had identical blue-and-white striped Easter dresses that year and they posed sweetly on the sofa, ages eight and a half, six, and nearly three, gently holding their blue-sleepered brother between them. I wish you could see Stephanie's look of big-sisterly concern, Audrey's look of sheer wonder (wondering where her Easter basket was, no doubt), and Erica's innocent toddler gaze as they cradled the caboose, the male heir, the long-awaited boy child. Our family, finished. It was a moment.

A few days before that I had been wheelchaired out of the hospital with baby Andrew in my arms. He was sleeping; I was crying. During nearly ten years of marriage, having those children had been my main job. Now I was done with that, and I told myself that the next time I visited a hospital it would not be for one of these joyous events; it would be to die. That's how morbid I felt that day, in the midst of my great happiness! Chalk it up to "baby blues" and the fact that I'd suffered a mysterious infection the day after Andrew was born and spent nearly a week in the hospital on strong antibiotics, unable to see or hold my child. Or perhaps those maudlin sentiments were simply me being prescient ... looking into the future and realizing that, now that our family was complete, the children's growing-up years would go by with all the decorum of a whirling dervish. Which they did. To call them a blur would be completely inaccurate; those years whooshed by me at such speed, they make a blur look like the sharpest picture on earth.

And so Andrew drove away to start college today, and I looked into the mirror and saw a few extra wrinkles, and although I was not moved to tears, I must admit I thought of that old song made famous by Peggy Lee: Is That All There Is? But that was just me being fatalistic, something for which I have an amazing proclivity ... of course it's not all there is. There's lots more to come. The kids know those three bedrooms and bath upstairs are just waiting for when they choose to occupy them once more. They know they can come as often as they're able and stay as long as they like, and that when they do there will be good food and lively conversation and familial strife and all you come home for. In the winter we'll make popcorn, mole out, and watch movies; in the summer we'll swim and have cookouts. Eventually they'll all marry and begin to bring more babies into my arms. And if that's not life, it's near enough for me.