Leaving Home
Our youngest son left for college last month. Perhaps you’re familiar with this rite of passage. It’s a time filled with excitement, anxiety, anticipation, and of course, shopping. I was thrilled about the shopping. Shopping’s in my wheelhouse; it’s practically my Olympic sport.
When I was a new student preparing for dorm life at the University of Oregon, I’d asked my mother to help me pack. As I recall, she tossed back the last of her martini, threw a half-empty bottle of Prell into a paper sack, and said, “There, you’re packed.” It was the eighties; times were different.
When I asked my son what he needed for his dorm, I imagined a few toiletries, maybe a poster or two, something that might fit into a couple of duffle bags. What I wasn’t prepared for was the two-page bullet-point list he printed from the university’s website. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of items. As I poured over the list of “necessities,” suggested by the university, I began to giggle. Surely this was a joke.
At the top of the list was bedding. Of course, that made sense. Lamps? Well, okay. Area rugs — really? The list went on to include blackout curtains, dishes, silverware, electric kettles, mugs, and sponges. Why all the kitchenware? We were sending the kid to college, not culinary school! For the amount of money we were paying the university, I’d expected the dorms to come with four walls and a floor at the very least, but now I had to wonder what else we’d need to supply — windows and doors perhaps?
A few weeks before the move, my son and I were shopping at Target when I reached the end of my rope. I had to draw the line, and that line was drawn firmly at a list item called “Poo-Pourri.” My son shifted uncomfortably as he explained that Poo Pourri was a toilet spray designed to eliminate odors — thus the name Poo-Pourri.
Cute. But at ten dollars an ounce, I decided my kid could do without cute. The boy had shared a bathroom with two brothers his entire life and had survived without Poo-Pourri; he could survive college without it too. I tossed six cans of Glade air freshener into the shopping cart. “Here, you and your dormmates can have a party!”
Moving day finally arrived, and with it, the first rains. We packed up the minivan in a downpour and hit the road for the two-hour drive south to the university. New students had been assigned specific arrival times to avoid congestion, but we arrived between shifts and managed to beat the crowds. The lobby was deserted, so we grabbed an empty baggage cart and began unloading my son’s worldly possessions from the minivan.
I knew the dorms weren’t luxurious. I hadn’t expected The Plaza, but I was not prepared for the squat 1970's-era building that would house my son for an entire year. The concrete exterior was bleak and institutional, and the interior was a cross between a prison and an asylum. Frankly, I’ve toured correctional facilities that were cleaner.
Upstairs, the hallways were narrow and maze-like, illuminated by twitching fluorescent lights. “It’s like a horror film,” my husband whispered. “I keep expecting to run into those creepy twins from The Shining.” Seriously unwelcoming.
The tiny, claustrophobic dorm room consisted of matching twin beds and student desks. Each side of the room a mirror image of the other. Black scuff marks marred the old linoleum floors, and the windows were so smeared with filth that only allowed a fraction of light could penetrate them. I tried to pry open a window, but years of built-up cobwebs and debris had fused it shut. Fresh air is overrated, I told myself.
As more rain-soaked students and harried-looking parents crowded into the hallways, we decided to head over to the dining hall, where my son would be eating the bulk of his meals. To my relief, Arnold Dining Center turned out to be clean, bright, and built-in this century. Things were looking up.
My own culinary experience at the University of Oregon dorms paled by comparison. The memories came rushing back like gastronomical PTSD. The limp vegetables, questionable meats smothered under thick blankets of gravy, the metal vats of undulating pudding riddled with suspicious-looking lumps.
Instead of gaining “the freshman 15,” I lost weight during my first term at college, subsisting on string cheese, and Tab. Occasionally a few of us would pool our money for Domino’s pizza, which was manna from heaven compared to the dorm food.
“You’re lucky; I hear the food’s good,” I told my son as we took a seat. He nodded and proceeded to wolf down several cheeseburgers. At least he wouldn’t go hungry.
Finally, it was time to leave. A crowd had formed in the dorm lobby as anxious students and weary parents lined up for the only available elevator. As we made our way through the bustling dorm, I found my son’s hand and squeezed it tight. I’d expected him to let go, uncomfortable with the PDA, and was surprised when he held on, tightening his grip as we exited the building.
Outside, the rain had turned into a rolling mist that covered us like a gray blanket. Droplets of dew clung to my son’s curls, forming a halo of stars around his face. We took a few quick selfies, as my husband left to bring the car around.
I turned to hug my son, who hugged me as if he’d never let go. I held tight to my boy and told him to be true to himself and to work hard. “You’re going to have the time of your life,” I whispered in his ear, doing my best not to cry.
My husband pulled the van to a stop beside us, and we said our final goodbyes. As we pulled away from the curb, I turned to wave at our son, who stood rooted to the sidewalk until our car reached the edge of the drive. Finally, I saw him turn and walk toward the building. He hunched his shoulders against the cold and breezed through the lobby doors. Back to his new home, his roommates, and his new life.
I’ll admit it; I cried during the drive home. I’d left a piece of my heart behind, and nothing would ever be the same. Several times I suggested that we turn the car around, drive back and get our boy. My husband, a man of endless patience, calmly reminded me of the value of this experience. I couldn’t disagree. Our boy was moving on, leaving his childhood, and us, behind. It wasn’t easy, but it was right.
The following week I visited my son, bringing along a new desk chair and a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies. I waited anxiously in the dorm lobby for my kiddo, who burst through the door, all smiles, sweeping me into a giant bear hug.
My apprehension dissolved as he proceeded to update me on his week’s activities. He’d enjoyed his classes, met new friends who’d taken him hiking in the mountains and down to the beach, and he’d been to his first college football game. In short, he was living the dream, and I couldn’t have been happier for him.
My heart was at peace. Our son was making friends and adjusting well to college life. My initial worries over dusty floors and grimy windows were inconsequential, I’d been focused on the minutiae of his daily life, not on the beautiful adventure ahead of him.
A friend with a college-bound daughter recently asked for my advice. I told her to buy everything on the list, including the Poo-Pourri; they’re going to need it. I encouraged her to take mental snapshots, enjoy every moment, don’t sweat the small details and stay focused on the big picture. Finally, if all of that fails, wine is now sold in nifty travel cans, so load up your cooler, mama. The ride home is going to be a long one.
