Last fall, we took our son to college.  My husband, my son, and I got up early that morning, showered, had a quick breakfast, loaded up the car, and drove to Oberlin.  There were so many things I wanted to tell my son, so many words of wisdom I felt compelled to impart, but I kept most of them at bay because I knew he wouldn’t appreciate them right then and there.  Instead, we filled the time and space during the drive by watching the sky, making predictions about whether the rain would let up or not, how we would be able to move in if it started to pour, what his roommate would be like and if he had already settled in.  We talked about the traffic we were encountering on the way, we talked about whether two high-school buddies who were also going to be freshmen at Oberlin had started on their drives yet and what time they would arrive, and we laid out a schedule for the rest of the day.

At the end of the summer, we received notification from Oberlin that dorms would open at 9am on move-in day, so we wouldn’t be able to pick up keys before then.  We arrived at our son’s dorm at 8:20am.  We were not the first family to have arrived either.  Fortunately, the people in charge were ready for the obsessive compulsive parents of incoming freshmen and (keeping a wary eye on the changeable sky) handed out keys to all the early birds so we could keep on our schedule.  We were able to unload the car and move everything into our son’s room during a break in the rain.

That day, like so many move-in days around the country, was devoted solely to unpacking, organizing the dorm room, rearranging the furniture, making the bed, rearranging the furniture again, putting clothes away, setting up his laptop, rearranging the furniture once more, going to Walmart for all the stuff he didn’t bring from home, reorganizing his things, meeting the other people on his floor, going to opening talks, receptions, picnics, going back to Walmart, and rearranging the furniture for the last time.  In other words, there was absolutely no time for any final words of advice.

The next day was similar, though filled with different activities.  We had to go to orientation meetings for students and parents, open a bank account, fill out some more paperwork, squeeze in a lunch, meet professors, figure out where the mailboxes were.  The weather, like the day before, was tremendously hot and humid.  And really, I had forgotten all about the wonderful bits I was going to share with my son because all I could think about was how much I wanted to sit in a cold pool with a large ice coffee.  I dragged myself to a final session for parents while the students attended a different orientation session.

The parents’ session was about “Letting Go.”  I secretly snorted to myself because I thought myself an expert on letting go.  After all, I had already sent my daughter off to college and I had survived that pretty well.  My daughter and I still have a very close relationship; we chat regularly via lots of different technological marvels: text, Face Time, Snap Chat.  She knows how grateful I am when she calls me “just cuz,” so she makes sure to do it often.  I considered not going to this parent session because, in my hubris, I thought I didn’t need it.  There was nothing new the college administrators could tell me about letting go.  But, then I thought, it couldn’t hurt.  I don’t want my son skipping his college classes, so what am I going to say if he asks me how my meeting was?

So I went.  And the faculty member who spoke was the head of the counseling center on campus.  He talked about how maybe parents are full of last-minute advice they feel they need to give their children.  About how maybe parents are worried they didn’t teach their children well enough how to be: organized/proactive/disciplined/social/responsible/resilient/etc.  About how parents might be contrasting their children’s point in life—starting an exciting new phase, where the potential of the future is shining before them—with their own point in life—where perhaps the realities of adult life can be very different from what we imagined when we were 18.

And I thought to myself, how could he be talking so specifically about me?  How did he know about all the last-minute advice I wanted to give my son?  I wanted to tell him to be proactive—you can’t wait for someone to come and drop an opportunity into your lap.  Opportunities come only when you go search for them.  I wanted to tell him to persevere and advocate for himself.  Just because some rulebook somewhere says this is the rule doesn’t mean that it’s the rule.  If you make a good case for yourself, like why you really should be in a particular class or how much you could really help out on a research assignment, maybe someone will give you a chance.  And if the first person doesn’t, go on to the second person.  And I really wanted to tell him that these heady first days will be gone in the blink of an eye, that college will be over in the turn of the head.  So be prepared for what comes after and the only way to be prepared is to think ahead, start planning now, know what you need to know.

I was thinking a lot about whether, as a parent, I had prepared him well enough to face the world.  But part of me was also thinking about whether I had prepared myself well enough for what I faced.  Who am I now that I don’t have kids at home anymore?  Who am I if I no longer monitor if my kids are sleeping enough, if they are eating the right foods in the right amounts, if they’re safe, if they’re happy and well-adjusted, if they’re doing all the assignments they’re supposed to be doing—or if I’m only worrying about these things remotely now?

Being mostly a stay-at-home mom has been so wonderful for me.  But now I have to figure out what I am because being an empty-nester is more about a lack than about something positive.  In the weeks and months before we took our son to college, people would ask me, “So, what are you going to do with all your time without kids at home?”  as if every second of every waking minute was devoted solely to my kids.  In response, I’d just joke, “Oh, sit in bed all day eating bon-bons and watching Oprah.”  In reality, I can only follow my own advice: search out opportunities because they won’t search me out; advocate for myself; be resilient and persevere.