Last year after dropping my firstborn off at college, I wrote an article describing what now seems like a total freak-show with me starring in the central role. I sobbed for three hours on the ride home, became extremely nauseated due to my migraine or perhaps because of it, and couldn’t get the stupid words from “Sunrise, Sunset” out of my damn head. As we drove off literally at sunset, it was more like a scene out of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Fast-forward one year: We dropped my son off last week and I barely shed a tear. As a sophomore, he opted to move off campus and we spent lots of time shopping for his new apartment, making lists, and coordinating with his roommates. On move-in day, we focused on setting up while not passing out from the extreme heat, and ignoring the dirt left behind by the former tenants. (Well, maybe not ignoring entirely. I did unleash a full bottle of disinfectant all over that place and preached about the use of toilet bowl cleaner to three disinterested boys.) I even mustered a tiny satisfactory evil streak, finding justice in the lack of air conditioning, washing machine, dryer, and dishwasher. He’s going to have a whole new appreciation for life under my roof when he comes home!
Within days of drop-off, I received the following note from a reader who saw my article from last year: