Just Me and Us, Mom

He was my little guy. My sidekick. The youngest of our tribe who rode in the backseat of my car for what seemed almost forever. He was always with me; always along for the ride; always on board for the day’s adventure; always … right there.

And today he leaves for college.

And though I’m really okay with this, I’m really not okay.

When he was small and his older siblings wildly piled out of the car on their way to school or practice or playdates, he remained behind. He remained with me. 

He was the child I remember hoisting into shopping carts and buckling into strollers as we tried our best to keep up with his older siblings and their busier schedules. He wasn’t a kid quick to get away. He seemed pretty content with this arrangement. After the great exodus from my vehicle each day he would say to me from his perch in the backseat, “it’s just me and us, mom. just me and us.” 

And for a long time, it was. 

But today he leaves for college.

It might seem a blink from that little boy in my backseat to the young man driving confidently around in his own truck today, but “a blink” isn’t exactly my choice of word for what these past 18 years have looked like.

Every mother knows the road her child takes. She knows the mile markers of struggle and growth. She knows the highway of hurts and hurdles. She knows the path of disappointments and accomplishments. She knows the winding way of “what ifs” and “what nows.” She knows it’s not a blink, but a day-by-day-by-day journey. Sometimes joy-filled, and sometimes just barely hanging on. 

On some of those days we wonder if this child will ever be ready. Days when we worry. Days when we ask why this? Days when we can only wrap ourselves in the knowledge that we are not the ones really in control.

There’s this internal fight we feel as mothers: This certainty that God has them, but this desire that we still want to be the ones who call the shots and control the outcomes. From kindergarten to college, we wrestle wanting to smooth the road ahead, but knowing it’s the very bumps which help to build them strong. We struggle with letting them fall and falter and forget their lunches. We struggle with having to watch them sometimes fail. When we sense potential pain, we are wired to swoop in and fix it like we know we can. 

And if you’re like me, there are times when you have taken the hard stance: “He will just have to figure it out on his own.” And times when you’ve picked him up off the floor and made everything okay again. Because as a mom you are required to do both. And it’s not because we are always consistent, but because we are fiercely compassionate when it comes to our kids. 

They are learning. We are learning. Together.

It’s going to be brutal saying goodbye to this kid who used to announce “it’s just me and us, mom” from my backseat. Even though he’s grown up and gone off a million times on his own in these past years, he’s still a kid who has been content to be part of whatever is happening here at home. He’s truly been my “go-to-guy” for too many years to count. 

He solves problems, he runs errands, he drives his sister, he picks up groceries and dinner and random last minute requests. He gets yard materials and milk and mails packages and makes his own appointments. He’s been doing his own laundry since middle school and knows his way around the kitchen better than the average adult. He is possibly my most ready and independent kid heading off to college, but he is also the one who has seemed to be here the longest. The kid who was always right here when the others left.

But today he leaves for college. 

It will be hard to let him go. Like with each of our kids, there’s a piece missing when they leave. My prayer is for peace in that missing piece. I know it’s God’s plan. I know it’s a good plan. I know, in fact, God has a great plan for his life which includes so much more than driving around in the backseat of his mama’s suv. 

Still … letting go is hard. It's a holy process which continues to refine the one who leaves and, maybe even more, the one who releases.

Recently a friend asked if it is easier saying goodbye to the 4th child. My answer is no, not easier, but you do gain the gift of perspective. I know the leaving is a timely end to a certain sweet season, but I also know there is a new kind of loveliness in what lies ahead. I’ve watched his older siblings come home softer in heart and stronger in purpose than when they left. And, for their mother, that is a most beautiful thing to see. We give them everything we can in their growing up years, but they must leave in order to grow up.

All summer I’ve watched mama birds set up nests in the ferns on our front porch. Just a few weeks ago I had the thrill of witnessing the fledglings, one by one, take flight. They tentatively left their tiny, safe, little nest and the next minute they were up on the branch of a majestic Maple nearby. I sat on the porch rocker and wept for the beauty and design of it all. They were never meant to stay in contained nests or backseats of cars, they are meant to fly. To soar. To see. To experience the beauty of this big, wonderful, wide-open world. 

Like my son. 

Who, today, will leave for college. 

"There are two things we should give our children: One is roots and the other is wings." ~ unknown