firstborn
"We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down." Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
I spent a good amount of time when my boys were little writing about their escapades. It gave birth to the little book, "hey poptart guy!" which has seen much success with dentists and ministry workers, thanks to my mom. My writing about Syd and Ben almost completely stopped in their middle school years, partly because life became fast and partly because, I don't know, it seemed like an invasion.
But I'm ready to tell all again. Well, maybe not all. Just a glimpse here and there, like a swatch of fabric a designer throws down in excitement to make you see the bigger picture of your living room. Kind of like that. Except with words, not pink sharkskin. Well, maybe a little pink sharkskin.
Dropping Syd off at UNT last fall, I stood on the 3rd floor level of the student parking garage, watching him lope across the campus below with new, carefully selected backpack in tow. My heart was breaking as I fumbled for the car door to force myself to get inside the car so I could then force myself to stop watching my son below.
Earlier in the day I had put on a brave face when we discovered his dorm room was about the size of a matchbox, and good to bunk in if you are one of the Borrowers. Syd let us help put away some of his bedding and clothes (in tiny compartments made for faeries and other woodland creatures), but he was anxious to have the goodbyes be over. We grabbed a bite to eat together at a fast food restaurant I can't even remember, because I was that sad.
I do remember finally standing in the parking garage, looking out over the tree-lined campus, watching his figure get smaller and smaller as he went further down a path. He wouldn't be back at home after a weekend, or a week, or even a month. It wasn't like I would be picking him up from a friend's house, or a camping trip or another adventure. Now his stuff was here, on this campus I now hated. This school that was his bridge to freedom and learning and great new experiences. And a life apart from us. Hated it so much.
I cried all the way home on I-35. I kept turning to Ben in the backseat and asking him if he was sad too. I wanted to see Ben and Steve cry. They were sad, but they are also part Norwegian. So emotions are kept at bay. Not so for this girl whose Scottish grandfather wept a good deal about his children.
The first week Syd was gone I decided to cheer myself up by giving his room a good cleaning. I even rearranged his artwork and posters because, hey, it's my house. Then I took myself to Target and bought all new bedding.
I made up the bed and looked over my handiwork, marveling at the cleanliness and lavender smell his room now had. It looked cozy again (if you didn't count the Spoon poster of a girl's skull in a time glass.) Then out of nowhere, the grief came. There was no Syd to see his room. No Syd to say "this is great! wow! and new bedding!" He's my enthusiastic one.
So I did what any mom would do. I laid down on the newly-made awesome bed and cried. I cried for the kid who had grown up and didn't need me so much anymore. I cried for the end of our little family unit of four who fit neatly into a booth at Chuy's. I cried because I already missed him so much.
I texted him a picture of his room later on, lying in bed next to Steve, asking Steve if that was too much contact. I mean, pathetic. We were trying to limit our conversations to once a week, unless he initiated it. I was surprised on a Friday night that he answered me. It was brief, but it helped in the letting go.
Fast forward a year, and things have changed quite a bit, again. With a change in majors and a late decision to be back in Central Texas at Texas State - Syd ended up back at home for a semester, maybe a year.
We would have been fine had he chosen to stay at UNT, or to go even further away. Sad, yes, but still fine. In this brief window of time, we are here to be the ground when he hits it, and the ones to give him a boost back into the sky when he needs it. He comes and go as he pleases with the condition of not being out past midnight on weeknights...because some of us work and get up at 5 a.m. We are not a part of what my dad calls the "true leisure class of America - the college student."
Syd's making plans to study abroad soon, and I have a feeling that may lead to a more permanent "abroad" situation. Our kid who can wear the same clothes all week long (and does), who could easily live out of a backpack, while eating the holy trinity of college food: fried eggs, bagels and protein drinks. The guy who is comfortable with most anyone and is always ready with a laugh and a big smile. The one who does the leaving, and who is rarely the one getting left behind.
But for now, there will be lots of cuddling between Syd and Ben on the living room couch. Well, Syd does most of the cuddling; and Ben tolerates it like the cuddly bear he is. Throw in a small, grumpy biting dog who likes to sleep on the couch, and it's a pretty great show. Soon it will just be that cuddly bear, and then none but the biting dog. So we live in the present, remembering the past, and throwing down for the future.
I spent a good amount of time when my boys were little writing about their escapades. It gave birth to the little book, "hey poptart guy!" which has seen much success with dentists and ministry workers, thanks to my mom. My writing about Syd and Ben almost completely stopped in their middle school years, partly because life became fast and partly because, I don't know, it seemed like an invasion.
But I'm ready to tell all again. Well, maybe not all. Just a glimpse here and there, like a swatch of fabric a designer throws down in excitement to make you see the bigger picture of your living room. Kind of like that. Except with words, not pink sharkskin. Well, maybe a little pink sharkskin.
Dropping Syd off at UNT last fall, I stood on the 3rd floor level of the student parking garage, watching him lope across the campus below with new, carefully selected backpack in tow. My heart was breaking as I fumbled for the car door to force myself to get inside the car so I could then force myself to stop watching my son below.
Earlier in the day I had put on a brave face when we discovered his dorm room was about the size of a matchbox, and good to bunk in if you are one of the Borrowers. Syd let us help put away some of his bedding and clothes (in tiny compartments made for faeries and other woodland creatures), but he was anxious to have the goodbyes be over. We grabbed a bite to eat together at a fast food restaurant I can't even remember, because I was that sad.
I do remember finally standing in the parking garage, looking out over the tree-lined campus, watching his figure get smaller and smaller as he went further down a path. He wouldn't be back at home after a weekend, or a week, or even a month. It wasn't like I would be picking him up from a friend's house, or a camping trip or another adventure. Now his stuff was here, on this campus I now hated. This school that was his bridge to freedom and learning and great new experiences. And a life apart from us. Hated it so much.
I cried all the way home on I-35. I kept turning to Ben in the backseat and asking him if he was sad too. I wanted to see Ben and Steve cry. They were sad, but they are also part Norwegian. So emotions are kept at bay. Not so for this girl whose Scottish grandfather wept a good deal about his children.
The first week Syd was gone I decided to cheer myself up by giving his room a good cleaning. I even rearranged his artwork and posters because, hey, it's my house. Then I took myself to Target and bought all new bedding.
I made up the bed and looked over my handiwork, marveling at the cleanliness and lavender smell his room now had. It looked cozy again (if you didn't count the Spoon poster of a girl's skull in a time glass.) Then out of nowhere, the grief came. There was no Syd to see his room. No Syd to say "this is great! wow! and new bedding!" He's my enthusiastic one.
So I did what any mom would do. I laid down on the newly-made awesome bed and cried. I cried for the kid who had grown up and didn't need me so much anymore. I cried for the end of our little family unit of four who fit neatly into a booth at Chuy's. I cried because I already missed him so much.
I texted him a picture of his room later on, lying in bed next to Steve, asking Steve if that was too much contact. I mean, pathetic. We were trying to limit our conversations to once a week, unless he initiated it. I was surprised on a Friday night that he answered me. It was brief, but it helped in the letting go.
Fast forward a year, and things have changed quite a bit, again. With a change in majors and a late decision to be back in Central Texas at Texas State - Syd ended up back at home for a semester, maybe a year.
We would have been fine had he chosen to stay at UNT, or to go even further away. Sad, yes, but still fine. In this brief window of time, we are here to be the ground when he hits it, and the ones to give him a boost back into the sky when he needs it. He comes and go as he pleases with the condition of not being out past midnight on weeknights...because some of us work and get up at 5 a.m. We are not a part of what my dad calls the "true leisure class of America - the college student."
Syd's making plans to study abroad soon, and I have a feeling that may lead to a more permanent "abroad" situation. Our kid who can wear the same clothes all week long (and does), who could easily live out of a backpack, while eating the holy trinity of college food: fried eggs, bagels and protein drinks. The guy who is comfortable with most anyone and is always ready with a laugh and a big smile. The one who does the leaving, and who is rarely the one getting left behind.
But for now, there will be lots of cuddling between Syd and Ben on the living room couch. Well, Syd does most of the cuddling; and Ben tolerates it like the cuddly bear he is. Throw in a small, grumpy biting dog who likes to sleep on the couch, and it's a pretty great show. Soon it will just be that cuddly bear, and then none but the biting dog. So we live in the present, remembering the past, and throwing down for the future.