Sending my daughter off to college

© Bananastock / Superstock   Transitioning 101 You’re going to miss them, that’s for certain. But before you claim the top bunk in your son or daughter’s dorm room, try these suggestions from universities for a smooth transition to college life: Schedule your goodbye. Decide ahead of time at what point you’ll leave on move-in day so that the goodbye doesn’t come as a surprise. Does your daughter want you to help unpack? Or would she rather put her things away while chatting with her new roommate? Communicate about communication. Determine when and how often you and your child will be in touch. Arrive at a compromise, if necessary. Let your child know you’re willing to listen when needed. Keep in touch, but don't overwhelm. Phone calls let your son know he’s missed, but daily wakeup calls aren’t necessary. SEND “REAL” MAIL. E-mails with family updates are great, and often the most convenient way to stay in touch. Once in a while, though, try a creative way to say “I love you”: Send clippings from your hometown newspaper, small care packages, or family photos of summer fun. Tell your child about campus resources. Resident assistants, personal counseling centers, and chaplains are often readily available for spontaneous discussions about homesickness or any other problems that might arise.

After 18 years of motherhood, I figured there was nothing left that could occasion the kind of kick-in-the-guts surprise that leaves one gasping for breath. But I hadn’t yet delivered a child to college. Foolish me: I actually thought I was ready for this particular rite of passage. From the moment I adopted my daughter as a 1-day-old, college was a certainty. Although I knew very little about why Maury’s birthmother had made the brave, hard decision to relinquish her baby, I did know that one of her stated reasons was that she wanted her child to have a good education. From the beginning, then, the dream of college was something I cherished not only for Maury, but also for the woman who had given her to me.

Over the years, I steadily put away money, peppering family conversations with the phrase “when you go to college” — as if college were some proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow of Maury’s childhood. We even survived the single-minded frenzy of her senior year in high school, when she and her friends threw themselves body and soul into the application process — taking SAT prep courses, attending countless college fairs, and editing one another’s admission essays. In the end, I was crestfallen when Maury chose a small liberal arts school close to our home in Texas instead of one of the high-profile California schools I’d lobbied for.

None of this emotional buildup, it turns out, was adequate preparation for the moment last September when Maury and I faced each other in the dorm room and said goodbye. It came after a long, hot day of hauling her belongings — the mini-fridge, the stereo, her computer, and teddy bears — up three flights of stairs. From her new perch on a single bed in room 324 of Doyle Hall — roughly half the size of her room at home — Maury supervised the move. I didn’t mind; she had all she could handle in dealing with the awkwardness of meeting her new roommate, Alexa. Mercifully, the match looked like a good one. Both love music. Neither smokes or has a disproportionate number of body piercings. Moreover, each seemed eager to accommodate the other. “You take the top drawers,” Alexa offered.

“No, you take them,” said Maury in her most upbeat voice. The two put together a shopping list: pink comforters, a throw rug, extra surge protectors, an erasable message board to hang on their door. Meanwhile, Alexa’s mom and I were down on our knees furiously scrubbing the grimy baseboards, as if keeping our heads low and hands busy would wipe out the emotional messiness of the situation.

All summer long, my mantra had been, Let her go, let her go; it’s her life, let her live it. But the gap between my mantra and my feelings dwarfed the Grand Canyon. Everything in me wanted to manage this experience, just as I’d once managed getting her to school and to dance lessons, followed by

dinner, homework, and bedtime at 8:30. Yet Maury had made clear from the outset that this was an experience she was intent on managing herself. She had exhibited a fierce independence in choosing a college; now, whenever I pressed her about possible majors or ways to make new friends, she would remind me that her college years belonged to her — that I’d had mine already. It was a sensible position, but not one I could easily accept. I hated the fact that I would no longer know everything about her life.

Naturally, I expected to cry at our parting. What took me aback was Maury’s reaction. Alexa and her mother had drifted out to purchase textbooks, leaving the two of us alone in the little room. Finally, I turned to Maury and said, my voice choking, “Well, honey, I guess it’s time I got going.”

With a single, swift movement, Maury, long, dark hair billowing, buried her head in her pillow and sobbed. I wasn’t sure if she was crying out of fear of her new life or if a small part of her didn’t want to leave home after all. It scarcely mattered. I sat on the bed, took her in my arms, and held her tightly, just as
I’d done when she was an infant, until she cried herself out.

And suddenly, there it was again, as robust as ever: the mother daughter bond, the one I’d feared might break under the strain of the physical and emotional separation we now faced. Relief washed over me as I realized our bond was plenty strong enough to withstand the myriad uncertainties of what would happen next in her life, and in mine. When her sobs subsided and our breathing returned to normal, I gave her a last kiss, stood up, and walked out the door, overwhelmed with gratitude that my daughter had had the wisdom not to stray too far from home. CD

From Ladies’ Home Journal, LHJ.com, September 2004. © Meredith Corporation. Reprinted with permission of the author.