It Feels Like Fall Today--It's Time

It feels like fall today.  The air is crisp.  But really, in San Francisco that means nothing, our "crispest" days can be in the middle of summer.  It's the light quality that let's me know it's fall. There's a warm glow, a slight sepia coloring the world.  Fall is bittersweet. 

Fall is the beginning and the end:  The beginning of an exciting new school- year and the end of the halcyon days of summer.  You put away your swimsuits and flip-flops and get out your sweaters and boots.  If you are in school, you are generally happy to move-up--most years you're taller, one year you will graduate from a cubby to a locker, and someday you may actually drive yourself to school.  If you are putting someone through school, you are generally shocked that they can't wear any of their clothes, concerned that they will never remember the combination to their locker, and TERRIFIED that they are behind the wheel of a car.  You watch them drive away and wonder how this happened. 

  

I took my son to college a couple of weeks ago.  2853 miles and three time zones away. 

I was ready for him to go.  I really was.  I promise!  The constant pull-and-tug of our relationship was exhausting.  Him pulling away because he's 18 and wants to live his own life; me tugging him back via my "rules" for living in this house and because I'm his MOTHER and I'm the one that's operating with a fully developed frontal lobe.  We were both doing our job. Having a child living in your house is like a baby living in your placenta:  At first things can be a little tricky, then everything is great, but toward the end it gets a little cramped and uncomfortable for everyone.  A placenta is only good for a limited number of days, and then as much as you know it's going to hurt, that baby has got to go.

Just he and I made the trip back east.  It was fitting.  What you might not know, and what he doesn't remember is that for the first three years of his life we were pretty tight.  With no family in the area, the dad working 12 hours a day, mostly single friends, and no nanny, my son and I filled each other's worlds, and thus, we developed a kind of shorthand.  As we walked around the campus on that first day, I knew just what he was thinking, I was thinking the same things.  I was nervous and worried about him; I could tell he was nervous and worried about me.  We were both overwhelmed by the possibilities (and the heat), scared at the thought of the responsibilities, and desperate to remember names and find our way around.  I knew that he wished he had a place to go and take a nap and just deal with all of this later.  I wanted to tell him to just put one foot in front of the other, but I didn't, I told myself.

When we left our house to go to the airport the morning before, it had been dark.  I sat in the car and watched him go from room to room, knowing that he wasn't just saying goodbye to a space that had housed him, but to his childhood. When I left his dorm room the next day, after moving him in, I made my way to my rental car making polite conversation with other parents, hoping that they couldn't see the gigantic lump in my throat.  I drove around campus and explored his new world while letting go of the old--I knew that things would never be the same.  I went back to my hotel room, ordered room service, got in the shower, and cried.

Back in San Francisco, walking the dog with friends at the beach, we talked about taking our kids to college.  One friend asked if I felt my son was ready for college.  I assured her that my son was half-baked, but that I had had the oven on high and had used the best ingredients.  I'm hoping that he's like his favorite cake: red velvet.  I get asked for my recipe all the time and when I give it to someone I always emphasize that you only cook it for the prescribed time.  I warn them that they will not think it's done but when the time is up they should take it out anyhow.  This is the only way that you can assure that the "heart" of the cake stays soft.  If you leave it in until you think it looks done it won't be good.  It may look good from the outside, but cakes, like boys, matter more on the inside.  It's scary to take what looks to be a half-baked cake out of the oven or to send what looks to be a half-baked boy across the country to college, but you have to have faith...and pray a lot!

I miss his big smelly hugs and when he tells me to not let go before he does.  I don't miss his stinky laundry.  I miss the sound of his car pulling in the driveway, knowing that he's home safe, whether it's in the middle of the day or the middle of the night.  I don't miss the calls in the middle of the night when he's trying to negotiate his curfew.  I miss listening to the radio with him in the car to see who can be the first to guess the artist of the song playing (I kill him at this game).  I don't miss asking him if his homework is done and him saying, "It's all good," which is code for no.

A few nights ago I dreamt that he was three and running down Chestnut Street in his Batman cape that he made from a black garbage bag--the vision was as clear as a summer day.  The next morning the memory of the dream had faded. His childhood has taken on a sepia tone in both our minds.  But the possibilities for his future, and for mine, are as bright and glaring as the noonday sun off the water in mid-July. 

Change is bittersweet, but this is the way it's supposed to be--he's eighteen and it's fall...it's time.