Dropping Our First Child off at College

 Letting Go, Leaning In

Yesterday, I did something that, over the years of homeschooling, I wasn't sure was possible: I dropped my firstborn off at college. My Asher. The boy who once believed a hanger was a medieval weapon, and would run through the house vanquishing dragons with it. The boy that used to leave Lego kingdoms in every corner of the house is now three hours away with a full size kitchen, fridge, a desktop, and a newly acquired air of independence.

The drive there was long, like a drawn-out drumroll before a big reveal. Only my oldest and my youngest came along for the ride—a sort of bookend blessing. The youngest chattered cheerfully before dozing off, oblivious to the seismic shift happening in my mother-heart, while the oldest sat steady beside him, equal parts excitement and nerves, fiddling with his water bottle like it contained the courage he needed. My husband, driving, and finding a random assortment of innocuous subjects to talk about to help keep our minds off this huge milestone. 

When we arrived, I braced myself for awkward introductions and a nervous, homesick son. Instead, Asher dove in headfirst. Within hours of our leaving, he was hugging the school mascot and finding his way to the local church. Not only that—he showed up to the church picnic on Sunday. I should have known he'd participate in the church's fundraising auction this first weekend. He loves God and the church, and no matter where he's at, he knows he can feel at home there. My fears of him holing up in his dorm, surviving on Pop-Tarts and YouTube, vanished quicker than my gas tank on the return trip.

But oh, that return trip. The drive back was quieter. The youngest eventually fell back asleep, and We were left with all those thoughts that haunt parents when their child is out facing the world alone—thoughts that came in waves of pride and pangs of parting. There’s a bittersweetness to parenthood they don’t tell you about at the baby shower. You spend years teaching them to walk, then years teaching them to run toward good things. And when they finally sprint into their own future, your heart cheers and breaks in the same breath.

I’m thrilled for him, truly. He’s learning to cook his own meals (though I’m fairly certain his “culinary repertoire” currently consists of chili, ramen, and quesadillas). He’s making friends, finding faith-filled community, and fumbling forward with the kind of wide-eyed wonder I had once when I left home.

Still, as we walked to the car, I felt the ghost of his toddler hand in mine as I held his baby brother's hand, the echo of his teenage laughter bouncing off the minivan windows, the sudden strangeness of one less place set at the table, one less necessary seat in the van.

Every mother knows this feeling—the mixture of mourning and marvel, of fear and faith. We worry: Will he remember to eat? Will he lock his dorm door at night? Will he know that even when the world feels overwhelming, he can always call home?

I suppose that’s the secret of sending a child off to college. You don’t stop being a mother; you simply become a quieter one. As tempting as it is to call and check in each morning and evening, I'm not. I want him to have his space, to develop new relationships and to grow in ways he simply can't at home. I'll remian a cheerleader from afar. A prayer warrior in the wings. A three-hour drive away, but always, always close.

And so, I’ll keep cheering. I’ll keep praying. And when he comes home at Thanksgiving with a duffel bag full of laundry and stories about his suitemates, I’ll be waiting—with open arms, as stocked a fridge as we ever have with six other kiddos at home, and maybe, just maybe, his favorite meal.