On Having your Firstborn go off to University

Written a few years ago, this story's a healthy reminder as I prepare for my secondborn's flight of the coop. jennyms

As my baby boy careened into the second term of his last year of high school, he hit the wall of University applications along with all his friends. We parents stood by helplessly as our sons and daughters diligently wrote essays and resumes recounting the best parts of their academic careers. I was struck by how much Matt had done that I had not been a part of. When he was small, I had been at every assembly, school play, and field trip with my camera and notebook; taking pictures and jotting down interesting tidbits for scrapbooks and yearbooks. But now I realized that he’d gone several years actually having had a life of his own. I no longer knew every friend of his and their parent. I wasn’t on a first-name basis with any of his teachers. In fact, I didn’t even know what his teachers looked like. He went off on school trips and events, coldly declining my offers to accompany the band, even when they desperately needed a chaperone for the Ottawa trip. So my baby had gradually drifted out of my line of vision.

As he prepared for university, I realized that my line of vision was now quite blocked by a mound of dirty clothing, a DVD collection that hovered precariously near the ceiling; and guitars, drums, and amplifiers which had quietly migrated into the living room. There was a constant puddle of slippery loose leaf papers and an 800-pound backpack which seemed to have taken up residence under and around the front hall table. As my friends lamented the loss of their darlings, I delighted in the thought of getting my house back. As other parents sadly anticipated the lonely quiet that would descend on their lives, I rejoiced in the anticipation of peaceful co-existence with only one child--and that I would get my house back. I gleefully rubbed my hands together while turning sad eyes to my husband and saying, as ambiguously as I could, “It hasn’t quite hit me yet that he’s actually leaving.” It didn’t matter much which university he chose to attend, so long as he decided to live in residence with all that lovely independence, and all his stuff.

Finally the big day arrived. There had been much packing, but oddly, not much had left his room. It still looked quite full. But the living room was finally free of teenage detritus and the space under the front hall table--well, there was space there now. Remarkable. Even my car seemed more roomy with the massive collection of screaming CDs, sunglasses, and junk food gone. Room for me and my things. And my house back.

As he unpacked in his residence room, I marveled at how quickly Matt filled his space. Posters and pictures, electronic devices, books, binders, bobbing headed dolls, boxes of paper, a bandana collection, and the insidious CDs and DVDs filled every horizontal and vertical surface. It looked just like home. My husband and I drove home in silence. I tingled with excitement. I stood in the doorway of Matt’s room and surveyed the ravaged remains of 18 years of life and laughter, love and light. Then I thought of the possibilities of rats and cockroaches, nests and webs. As I weighed the relative merits of shovel versus vacuum cleaner, maybe a backhoe, the phone rang. It was Matt. “Hi Mum. I just wanted to tell you. Don’t touch anything in my room. I wanna be able to find stuff when I come home. By the way, we’re having band practice this weekend at our house. Can you drive up and bring my guitars and amp back? They’re too big to take on the bus. And my laundry. I won’t have time to do my laundry here. And a bunch of people are coming over to watch a movie on Saturday night. Can you please, please make some of those really soft oatmeal cookies that everybody likes? There’re the best. Thanks Mum. Bye.” I hung up the phone. I sighed. I leaned against the doorframe. I weighed the relative merits of bare flat surfaces in spacious rooms versus light and laughter. I smiled. Maybe next year I’ll get my house back.