I know you’ve heard the stories over and over, but let’s go back to 1988, my freshman year of college, that watershed time in my life and ultimately, yours.

I was 17 years old, a mostly naive refugee from an all-girls Catholic high school. The first weeks at my big state college were overwhelming; classes with 400 students, people of all colors and creeds and most of all, boys everywhere I looked.

I met your dad the first Tuesday of my freshman year.

I don’t recommend this, of course. As you know, I don’t recommend much of the path I’ve taken. Do I as I say, not as I did, particularly my freshman year of college.

As it happens in residential community life, I met your dad’s roommate, then your dad, then several of their guy friends from high school, including John and Greg, also students at our university. Then I met Ellen, who led to meeting Carmela and Elizabeth. They became my best girlfriends (and still are) even as your dad was becoming my boyfriend. We were like family, all of us, eating meals together, going to classes together, hanging out on the weekends and, in fact, every moment in between.

The hardest part of freshman year was this: after living as a mostly only child from the age of 7 (both my sisters had gone to college by then), I was used to having time alone. I couldn’t find it. If I wasn’t with your dad, I was with my roommate Jenny. Everywhere I went there were people; lots of them.

It’s funny because even though Dad and I got married just a year after we met, we, and all our friends spent so much concentrated time together, that it was like five years compressed into one. And when you live that closely with other people, you see it all; the good and the bad. We all saw one another at our worst and our best and never have I been so close to a group of people before or since.

I made the best friends I have that school year — in fact, within the first few months of college, binding myself for life to the best friend of all — your dad.

And that is how we come to you, the gift at the end of our freshman year; a year of learning, love, discovery and lasting friendship that gave us you, our son, the first child among all our friends. It was when you arrived in January, 1990 that you began to be known as the boy. You belonged, in a way, to all of us, the physical manifestation of a year we all became the people we are today.

So again, if possible, don’t take our path the same way we did, racing through life like there was no tomorrow. Getting married after your freshman year of college, I think you’d agree, is not an ideal scenario. Also, taking a subsequent additional five or seven years to complete a degree part-time is for the birds. Get on through in four or, if necessary, five.

I do hope one part of our path is the same for you. I hope you find in the friends you make some of the people who will be as important to you as ours are to us. I hope you find lasting relationships with people who share the same values, and who support your dreams, whatever they may be.  And when the life you planned for doesn’t unfold the way you expected, remember that’s what life is; a series of twist and turns with no roadmap. You can’t Google Map your life, but you can discover who and what is important to you when those people and ideas do not change, no matter what surprises throw you off the path.

What? Whoa! Time travel? No. Recalibration. We have two extra days before the boy goes to college. His room and roommate assignment arrived in the mail and his move-in date and time are very specifically scheduled. Borrowed time friends, borrowed time.

Last night, before the roommate assignment arrived in today’s mail, the boy was friended by his new roomie in Facebook. Oh, how I love Facebook. I know, I’m not allowed to because, dude, I’m old and all that.

The boy said how he’s now seen 300 photos of his soon-to-be roommate which, out of context, seems weird. On the flip side, he reviewed his own profile from the perspective of the new roomie and observed photos of himself playing trombone, playing board games and has decided that future roomie is thinking, “Great. My roommate is a geek.”

I spun the wheel my freshman year of college and got Jenny, the tuba player, German student and rabid parrothead. I got lucky.

What was your freshman college roommate like? Did you spin the wheel, or go with someone you already knew?

What are we? Cyclones or Blazers?

I was planning to go — really I was. It would not have been too difficult to get there, despite the 700 mile distance. I spent time on the reunion website and connected with some old friends. And now? I can’t make it to my 20th high school reunion.

It’s too bad, because I was really looking forward to seeing Liz, Lisa, Ann, Randee, Stacey, Brad, Susan, Erika, Dave (aka Swuz), Becky and oh, a lot of people I guess. I imagine it will be well-attended.

Instead, I must take a trip for work that will take me out of the country, far, far away from any of those people who knew me when I had big hair and occasionally wore purple mascara.

Maybe I’ll make it to the next one — whatever that is — 25? 30?

Moments ago I was elbow deep in Crisco.

Don’t ask.

We’re hosting three pre-teen girls tomorrow night for the girl’s birthday party. She declined my offer of birthday pie and has generously allowed me to bake her a birthday cake.

“Your birthday cakes are crappy. Just go to the store,” said my son, the one I will not miss this fall.

“Hey, at least I TRY.”

And I do. And yes, some of them have been crappy. He tried a too little too late save: “But they taste good.”

Whatev.

The girl wanted what we all want but cannot have: a Carmela cake. Carmela is my best friend. She makes gorgeous, divine cakes. Each of us has been blessed with a Carmela cake at one time or another, to commemorate some special event in our lives. Mel’s cakes are what everyone wants for their birthday. It can’t happen though; Carmela’s in Colorado. We’re in Virginia.

I was inspired to try to emulate a Carmela cake however, spurred on by my brave friend Danielle’s fondant experiment, I researched fondant online and tonight, went to work. Yes, that’s where the Crisco comes in you sicko.

So the fondant is made, the cakes will be baked tomorrow and another birthday grand experiment will draw to a close, for better or for worse.

They’re always made with love.

I’m feeling kind of guilty. My sister’s son goes off to college in 12 days and then she’ll have an empty nest. My other sister’s son has been away for years. People point out to me that my nest won’t be empty, after all, we still have the girl, actually the more high maintenance of our two children.

The girl says she won’t miss her brother. I think she’s unprepared for having her parents’ total attention. Sure it sounds good now, but she’ll be unpleasantly surprised by the additional chores, the inability of her parents to overlook what she could in the past, slip under the rug. I think she’ll miss him, if nothing else, for someone to take the heat when there’s trouble.

So I’m wondering how other parents of college-bound kids are holding up. How are you handling the separation anxiety? The pending hemmorage of money? The quiet house with no brooding teenager?

My boss came to town and in a fit of overconfidence, I decided to make her dinner and I baked a pie. Dinner was so-so; a simple summer dinner of grilled chicken, asparagus, pineapple and bread. (I had planned to take her out the second night she was in town so she wouldn’t have to suffer my culinary ineptitude twice. Boy, am I glad “cooking” isn’t a category on the review form).

Blueberry Lattice Top Pie

The girl was excited, as always, to have a new member of the audience, so I let her be in charge of the pie photography this go-round.

This was the second time I’d made the lattice top blueberry pie. It’s always good to have some practice before you decide to share a pie with guests. The lattice top shrunk or pulled away from the sides in some places but that didn’t matter too much. It still tasted pretty good; in fact, I think it tasted better than the first blueberry pie I made.

The visit was as good as the pie. I was delighted to have my boss all to myself for the better part of three days. We met with several people all over town and spent some time with our Charlottesville clients as well.

The girl will want you to know that she was a perfect angel and remembered her manners. She also took pretty good pie pictures. I think I’ll hire her.