Notes to My Son

Ron arrived home today to find me in a puddle in the middle of Tyler's bed. One guess as to why.

In six days we will drive the longest ninety minutes in the history of the world. Or at least in the history of my world. My baby is going to college. And, while Ron has told me repeatedly that this is what we've been preparing for for the last eighteen years, I still can't believe it's finally here. And while Tyler may be thoroughly prepared, I am so totally not. It seems like just a year or two ago I was nursing him, looking into those impossibly blue eyes and thinking, "I've seen those eyes before." Of course I had. They were mine.

About ten years ago Tyler and I began a back-and-forth correspondence in a paisley patterned journal. I'd write something and leave it on his bed; he'd write back and leave it on my pillow. We were faithful journalers in the beginning, but fell off the wagon once he hit middle school. I unearthed it today and wrote one last note to him - that's when Ron found me.

It's hard to describe how it feels. Intellectually I know he's only 90 minutes away and that I'll see him on a fairly regular basis. It's the thought that the basic training part of his life is over. I know there's something vital I've forgotten to tell him. Like, it's really not a good idea to ever miss a class (well, no more than three a semester). Or people may try to tell you the weekend really begins on Wednesday. Stay away from them.

Once he leaves on Friday, coming home will be different. He's starting a life that I won't be so much a part of. And that's fine. Ok, maybe I'll feel a little left out. Again, intellectually I know that's what's supposed to happen and that I should be a little worried if it didn't. But I think we have a relationship that's a bit different than most mothers and sons. I mean, how many nearly nineteen-year-old boys will let their moms hold their hands in public? And how many sons that age say "I love you" at the end of every telephone call and every time they walk out the door? (Ok, he says that to his sister, dad and grandparents, too). How many sons will come upstairs to watch this guy sing opera because his mom wants him to, and enjoys it even after he's said he won't?

So, Tyler, know that your mom is going to miss your presence, your face, your smile, your laugh, in her daily life. Know that God will continue to watch you and guide you and give thanks when you succeed and when you honor Him. Know that this home will always be YOUR home, no matter how old you get. And know that you always, always, always make my heart sing. Even though there are a few tears slipping out right now.

Dang. I feel the puddle reforming.