Five days ago, I helped my daughter, Miss R, move into her college dorm. She is a freshman this year; I can now say that I have a kid in college. Seeing those words in print made my heart skip and brought tears to my eyes, but also filled me with an incredible sense of pride.
In the weeks preceding the trip up to college (“university,” for my Canadian friends), I planned this blog post. I was going to wax sentimental about how I wept on the way to school, knowing I would be coming home alone, and how I wept when we drove through the campus entrance, and wept again when in her dorm, and, finally, about the hysterical weeping that ensued when we hugged goodbye and lasted for three hours until I got home, exhausted, and curled up on her bed to weep some more.
None of that happened.
We drove up (in a rented Chevy Tahoe that could have seated 10, plus butler hors d’oeuvres service) the night before armed with chai Frappuccinos® and jovial spirits. We laughed about being stopped by campus police during the mandatory dry run (so we could easily locate her dorm in the morning). And we unpacked in the morning with only a soupçon of snark.
When I hugged my daughter goodbye after lunch, I felt that familiar lump in my throat and something in my eye. I also felt as though my heart would burst. Really, just explode into little tiny pink heart-shaped confetti all over campus. Because as emotional as I am, as much as I will miss that beautiful kid, and as much as I wish I had just a few more days to tell her everything I know (including the rather sizable list of what not to do), it was time. This was the precise moment I knew would arrive the instant I held that mushy 9 pound, 14 ounce baby. And it was at that precise moment that I knew for certain that I had done my job – and done it well. (For the record, I am now crying.)
In my world of counting steps, the significance of this one is manifold. My little girl, you rocked it. We rocked it. I cannot wait to see what you do with it.
