Off to College
So we’ve just come back from California after taking Maddye to college.
It was that pinnacle moment parents hope for and dread: when their oldest child heads off to try to make it on their own.
After 18 plus years of sheer craziness–diapers, colic, doctor’s offices, vaccinations, birthday parties, bedtime, bicycles, scraped knees, lost teeth, best friends, former best friends, teachers, hair cuts, braces, holidays, sleepovers, sibling rivalry, camps, middle school, sports teams, boyfriends, high school, distancing from parents, driver’s ed, first car, first wreck, prom, missing curfew, graduation, and that turbulent post-graduation summer–it suddenly comes to an end.
Last week, we had four in the house. Now there’s just three.
It was an emotional week, and I found myself spontaneously sobbing from time to time, just thinking about how far away Maddye would be from us. It shook us all up, I think, from grandparents to little brothers, but it was particularly hard for me to say goodbye. Even one semester is a long time when you have health like mine.
As we were in Maddye’s new room about to say goodbye, I was reminded of that time when Maddye was just a toddler, perhaps a year and a half old. It was “parents night out” at church, a monthly event when the church provided free childcare so parents could have a little break, otherwise known as “date night.”
We had left Maddye with grandparents before, but we had never left her for the whole night with anyone else. LeAnn was getting ready, so she asked me to run Maddye over to the church, then come back and pick her up.
When we arrived at the church, I picked Maddye up in my arms and carried her over to the building where parents night out would be taking place. Upon entering the room, the first thing I noticed was that it was loud. Extremely loud. Obnoxiously loud.
I saw that several other children had already arrived, and their ages were pretty spread out. There was an infant and another toddler or two, all confined to a holding area in the center of the room. Outside of this holding area, however, there were several other kids, some in the 4 to 5 year range, and several much older than that. These groups were chasing each other around the room, throwing balls, yelling all the while.
I counted more than ten kids, but there were only two workers. It was early, however, so more workers were probably on the way. But that was something I really couldn’t bank on.
As I handed Maddye over to the worker who was in the holding area, Maddye gave me this look I’ll never forget. She had the biggest eyes, you see, and big crocodile tears were forming there. Her chin was quivering, and she looked truly scared. She held out her arms and cried, “Daddy, don’t go!”
I told her it was okay, that we would be back in just a little while. But she didn’t believe me. She just kept holding her arms out and crying.
This shook me up rather badly, I’m afraid, but I managed to turn and walk away. But just as I was leaving the room, two more kids were brought in, making the kid-to-worker ratio even worse.
I stopped and turned around. There was Maddye, in the midst of all that noise, noise, noise, noise, holding her arms out to me, crying, begging me to take her back home.
I arrived at home ten minutes later, holding Maddye in my arms. “I couldn’t do it,” I confessed to LeAnn, who just shook her head. “You’re such a softie,” she said.
Seventeen years later, standing in a dorm room in Santa Cruz California, I’m halfway wishing it would all happen once again. That just as I’m about to leave Maddye would hold out her arms to me and say, “Daddy, don’t go!” And then I would swoop her up and return to Never Never Land.
Of course I don’t really want that. I want Maddye to live her life, to spread her wings and fly. I want her to believe in herself, to be confident, not scared.
Truth is, this time it’s me who’s scared. This time I’m the one with the tears in my eyes and the quivering chin. This time it’s me who is about to look at her and say, “Maddye, don’t go!”
But I don’t, of course. Instead, I give her the longest hug I can, then, fighting off the tears, I turn and walk away.
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Comments
Wow, Santa Cruz.
As someone who has lived in both Norman and Santa Cruz, welcome to the club.
SC is a strange and wonderful place. I hope she finds a community of faith quickly there, though. She will need it.
Already done that once and I felt the same way. About to do it with the next one who was probably on the floor at Parent’s Night Out playing by himself with the binky in his mouth and the blanket in his arm. And my older one was in the loud room screaming in the arms of Mahi trying to console him. lol! Memories. Love, Sally
As I sit here with big crocodile tears thinking of times when we did the same with our kids at FBC…We just dropped Braden off at the SigEp house in Norman after a few days in Tulsa. I am so proud but it is so hard to walk away. My girls will be next in a few years. They just got their drivers license and it was so hard to watch them drive away. I love you man, Paul
Beautiful, Jim.