Tears, fears and duct tape
As a new parent, everyone braces you for how challenging the newborn phase will be. They make jokes about sleeping while you can because once the baby shows up, you’ll be up around the clock and nothing will ever be the same.
But they don’t say much about what happens when those newborns grow up, finish college and launch into a new career. What I’m learning as I live through it is that these two phases of parenting are strangely similar — thrilling, overwhelming, and scary, too.
But first, let’s talk about the good stuff. In mid-May, our first baby graduated from college. The ceremony lasted three hours in direct sunlight on an unusually hot spring day, but it was worth every sweaty second. Our hearts swelled as we watched our son, Adam, walk across the stage when his name and accomplishment were announced — graduating with distinction with two college degrees.
Am I gushing? Yes, but I know most of my readers won’t mind because I’ve been writing this column since before Adam was born. He and his younger brother and sister have had starring roles in many of the essays I’ve written in the past 23 years. If you feel like you know these kids, it’s because, in many ways, you do. So you’ll be nearly as thrilled as we were to hear that not only did this boy graduate college, he also managed to land himself a job as a new accountant for a large company.
But the new company has assigned him to train at a location that’s twice as far away from us as he was in college. So, two weeks after we helped pack up his college apartment and brought all those boxes home, we repacked and loaded them up again to move them to a new apartment in a neighboring state.
Until recently, Tom and I had used the same roll of duct tape for the past 10 years. Then, in just one month, we went through three new rolls, along with at least a dozen boxes, plenty of plastic bins, a gaggle of duffel bags, and a U-Haul trailer to drive them hundreds of miles away.
Then, when we arrived at the new apartment on move-in day, we learned a hard, unfortunate truth: If an apartment building has three floors or less, it isn’t required by law to have an elevator. (What?!)
This was shocking news to me because I had assured everyone that we’d be able to use an elevator to get the heavy furniture up to the third-floor apartment. Instead, father and son had to hoist all the big stuff up two flights of stairs on a hot, humid day while I stayed busy slicing through duct-taped boxes and putting things away.
By the end of the weekend, we felt nearly as exhausted as we did when Adam was a colicky newborn who screamed more than he slept. It’s also true that a middle-aged parent’s energy reserves get used up quicker than they did when we were dumb yet robust twenty-somethings. (We are currently sore in places we forgot we even had.)
Mixed in with the moving fatigue are feelings — proud ones, happy ones, and melancholy ones, too. Because I know this move is different. I’ve never said it out loud, but I’ve felt it in my gut for weeks now. This time, there is no three-week Christmas break between semesters when he’ll be home. This time, he is beholden to a real boss, not just a professor. This time, he is building his own life — professional, personal, and financial. Things have shifted into a different gear.
Yet I feel like I did the day he started Kindergarten. Is he ready? Will he like it? Will they be kind to him? Will he flail? Flourish? Or both? I’m standing on the edge of our nest, watching as a part of my heart takes flight — praying that all this preparation will help him defy gravity.
The thing that’s helping me shrink the bittersweet lump in my throat is remembering how I felt in my first solo apartment 30 years ago. It was a dump, but I loved that place because it was mine. And even though my first newspaper job paid far less than an accountant’s salary, I was able to cover the bills. That mix of freedom, responsibility, and capability made me feel like a real-deal grown-up for the first time in my life, and it was incredible. Now it’s his turn to feel that same way, too.
Nothing will ever be the same, just as it was meant to be.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.
