The drive home
Some things you can’t understand until you live them yourself.
We were fortunate enough to snag a parking spot right by the back door. My dad opened up the trunk and began unloading my boxes and a suitcase full of clothes. He was waving and chatting it up with the other parents as he’s known to do. My mom stayed focused on the task at hand. Unloading the car and hauling my stuff up to the fourth floor of my dormitory.
A few weeks earlier, she and I had gone shopping together and picked out my peach comforter and light blue sheets. Before she did anything else, my mom made up the bed in my room. She helped me hang the clothes in my closet. Fold and put away the smaller items into drawers. Put my books on the bookshelf. A family photo. I’m sure she smiled her big, beautiful smile, but she didn’t say much while she did this.
I can’t remember if my roommate, a close friend from high school, was there before me or not, but at some point, both sides of our room were set up and it was time to say goodbye to our parents. We hugged. I’m sure my mom smiled and said, “I love you, sweetie,” while my dad hollered a “See you later!” from the rolled-down window as they drove away.
My roommate and I ran off to find our other friends and roam campus as incoming freshman.
In that moment, I didn’t give a single thought to how my mom, and honestly, my dad too, were feeling as they drove back home without their firstborn.
It was only years, maybe decades later, that my dad told me my mom had quietly cried the whole way home.
Thirty years later, after I dropped my oldest off at college, I drove up my street and a friend stopped me. I rolled down my window, and she asked, “How was it?”
“Well, I basically cried all the way down I-5. I feel like I’ve been laid off on a Friday, escorted out of the building without any contact information, and told not to come back on Monday.”
And it was only then that I could understand how my mom had felt all those years before.
At eighteen, I thought that day was entirely about me. I was starting college, meeting new people, and moving into a dorm room. Beginning this exciting new chapter of my life.
What I couldn’t possibly understand then was that while I was beginning something, my mom was ending something.
For eighteen years, being my mother had given shape to her days. Not all of them, of course. She had a full life beyond me, but I was woven into the fabric of it. Where I needed to be. When I needed to be picked up. Whether I was home for dinner. When I would walk through the door and who might be with me.
I think it’s one of the hardest things about the end of any long season of life. Whether it’s raising children, a career, a relationship, or even moving out of a home we’ve lived in for years, we don’t only lose the thing itself. We lose the familiar rhythm that came with it. And without that rhythm, we can feel a little lost.
In a few weeks, my youngest will begin his senior year of college. Which means next fall will be the first September in almost three decades that none of my children will be heading back to school.
After that, there’s no school calendar to mark the year together. No shopping for school supplies. No meeting new teachers. No class schedules or after-school activities. No move-in weekend. No drive down I-5 in late September. No more tuition bills.
My relationship will change with him, the way it did with his brother and sister, and I want it to. I want all three of them to go out and grab life, and I’ll be in the stands cheering them on.
But I’m also beginning to realize that while my children are moving into lives that belong more and more to them, I’m moving into a life that belongs a little more to me.
And maybe that’s the unexpected gift of some endings. They leave a little empty space. And eventually, when we’re ready, we get to decide what we’d like to put there.
All those years ago, my mother made my bed, hugged me goodbye, and drove home crying while I ran off toward whatever came next.
Thirty years later, I finally understood.
And now, as I watch my own children run toward whatever comes next, I’m beginning to understand something else.
I get to run toward something too.
Cheers,
Carrie
The more life I live, the more I understand how precious our time is. What even a few minutes is worth. It doesn't go unnoticed that you spend some of your day here with me. Thank you for letting me be a small part of it. I hope you always leave with something meaningful.🤍☕️