Confronted with logic I couldn’t argue against, the cost of gas, the amount of stuff you’ll be hauling to school in a little more than two weeks, leading to lack of space in the car for me and the dwindling number of days in my vacation bank, I’ve decided I won’t be dropping you off at school with Dad. Taking two cars doesn’t make sense and you will need to arrive on a weekday, so it’s up to you guys to manage the move-in without me.
It’s not what I always pictured, but I have a little time to adjust to it. It won’t be the Hallmark scene you have probably been dreading, nor can I slip an extra $50 or, depending on my grief, $100 into your pocket before we leave. I’ll save you the sobbing mother routine, the awkward hug goodbye in front of your new roommate. Instead, I’ll be able to bid you farewell at home, where, after you’ve gone, I will throw myself into what will hopefully be a busy day at work.
I’m planning what I’ll say, wanting to impart some words of wisdom, something along the line of, “Plastics.” But that won’t do, no, not at all. I’ll probably, like you, try to be all casual and throw off a “See you in October,” or some such, jovially sidestepping any emotion that would probably embarrass us both.
Oh your dad must be delighted to have found this convincing argument for taking you off to school alone — for the first few years we were married, every time we visited my parents I would cry halfway home. This way he can drive back in peace, with no gasping and nose-blowing nonsense going on beside him.
Maybe I won’t even cry! How’s that? I didn’t cry at graduation; not a tear! In fact, I may even just celebrate. One down, one to go! Empty nest, here we come.
So maybe this is what I’ll say when you go: “Thank God, I thought this day would never come.” Or, “Write when you find work.” Or, “Don’t call for money unless you’ve got a good story to tell.”
