August 19, 2019 is my national day of mourning. Or self pity. Or sadness. Or grief. Or whatever you want to call it. It seems extreme to put this on the same level as true tragedy. It isn't. I know that. But right now, my heart stings and my soul is heavy and it's a loss and this is just an exercise so I'm going to call it like I feel it at this very moment. I know all the trite and realistic responses but I need a moment to mourn, marinade in my feelings, sort them out and then move-on.
I love the Facebook posts of everyone dropping their kids off at college. I really do. We're a social experiment that has never been conducted. We've raised our kids, collectively, on-line. I've had my account for 11 years. I've witnessed everyone's kids' annual first day of school, learner's permit, driver's license permit, prom, annual vacation, broken bone, sports team triumphs, loss of pets and loss of loved ones. We display every proud moment for the world to see and I love it. I may not always comment, but I feel joy when you feel joy and sorrow when you feel sorrow. I note every passing birthday and anniversary. I could live every moment on-line and skip reality and some days and weeks my family and iPhone tracker tell me that I do.
We dropped Evan off at college this weekend. I held it together until today. I had twinges of sadness over the past couple of weeks, on the drive up and over the weekend. But pulling into the driveway last night, and knowing there would only be 2/3 of my litter sleeping under my roof and in their beds, things felt incomplete. And it's all good. He's happy. He's where he's supposed to be. He hugged us all and acknowledged the parts of him that realized this is a shift. It's all good. The alternative is far worse. I know that and I'm so incredibly grateful.
But, today, I am sad. I'm tearful and I'm in my pajamas lying in my bed and I don't feel like doing anything other than soaking in my sadness, letting it permeate every pore and every ounce of my tissue. My baby boy left home. His room is empty and he's not coming back tonight or tomorrow night or next week. His sister is going to move into his room and his bed and his belongings will be relegated to her small corner of the house. I'll never go back there and hear the blare and the beat of rap music coming out of his bathroom, see his shoes lined up along his wall, the clothes lying on the bed and the backpack on his desk chair. I won't check my phone at night to see if he's almost home and wait to fall asleep after I've heard him walk through the door. I won't hear him foraging for snacks late at night or making his breakfast early in the morning. I can't ask him to take his sister to a friend's house or take out the trash or put his dishes in the dishwasher. I can't get annoyed when the first thing he does when he walks through the door is ask me to order him new contacts or put money on his card to pay for the X, Y or Z he just bought. And I know I'm fortunate. I know the alternatives are far worse. I know 12 years ago I worried I'd not live long enough to see this day. I know my cousin missed this with her daughter, my goddaughter. I know there are families that lost their children, can't afford to go to college, kids won't get off the couch, are riddled with depression/anxiety/substance abuse, etc. But, today, I feel sad. I feel loss. I mourn and, with the rain that's coming down outside, I'm going to allow myself to feel this way.
Because, I think what's behind it is self-doubt. And I'm not looking for validation. But with every transition you ask yourself, "did I do a good enough job?". Did I appreciate him enough? Did I thank him enough? Did I tell him I was proud of him enough (truly proud, of him, his character, his person, who he is-not what he can do). Did I equip him enough? Was all of it enough? Could I have tweaked my performance here or there and done a better job? I don't have the blank canvas anymore. He'll be home for breaks and he'll call and I know that parenting isn't over, but for these past 18+ years, did I fail him in any way? I'm sure I did, but is the damage severe? Will he recover? Will he forgive me? Will he have grace for mine and his father's failings? Does he appreciate we did the best we could with what we had or will he uncover resentments when he is out of our house? Will he look back and realize he's angry with what we've done to him? Will he write a scathing memoir uncovering all of our years of abuse and neglect? Will he forget us? Will he never want to come home? Will he stay in touch with his brother and sister and grandmother and cousins? Was it enough? As I tearfully lamented to my husband this morning, "I can't possibly be expected to do anything today or the rest of the week because ultimately, it's all about me!". It's about him. But, really, it's about me. God, did I f*ck it up? Did I pray enough? I can never pray as well or as often or as good as my mom did for me and my brother. I don't have that kind of professional Jesus-ness that she possesses and maybe I wasn't as good of a parent because I didn't get up and do my quiet time at 4 am every morning like she did. Did I thank Jesus enough for him?
That's what I wish I could see on all these Facebook posts. I wish there was an agony-o-meter that you could scan over every photo and know that you aren't alone; that everyone else in their newly decorated dorm room felt the same feels. Behind the opulence of it all, that really you're a self-doubting mess. That, sure you're aware of all the hits, but right at this very moment, you're more acutely aware of all the misses. The photos represent the resiliency and what we want to project. We know our kids will thrive in spite of our failings and that is what we are putting out there. So maybe I do want validation. Maybe I do want to know that everyone else is rating themselves on the lower half of the Likert scale right now.
So today my family has to suffer me. Even the dogs have to suffer me. They were allowed to hop on the bed with me but as soon as they heard the bell chime and the door open, that was their cue to get the hell off the bed. "Our human is off the chain right now," they were thinking. My husband brought me my computer, the charger, a box of Kleenex, a bottle of coconut water and offered to heat up my coffee. He was even the one to get the dogs on the bed with me and that is the number one offense in his book. He will deal with his feelings in his own quiet and dignified way that involves burying himself in yard work, the bills and the gym. My other 2 kids will and have been coping in their own ways but that is their own story to tell. They love their brother, their captain who they both adore and who also annoys them in only the ways an older brother can. So, I don't really get a full day to sulk and bask in my own schizophrenia of emotions. I have to wash my face, brush my teeth, put on my clothes and be a wife, parent and an adult. I have to give thanks, give myself some grace and carry on. I have two other kids I still have time to screw up with or modify my parenting and do it better.
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