The one I've been afraid to write.

Originally posted by CC-Mom at 5/6/2013 9:28 AM

Old House, New House, Tried House, True House. . . 

and, my Baby Boy is Going to College.

It’s one of those things that’s creeping up on me, even after I’ve been anticipating its arrival for so long.  We are about to move into a new house, just a mile away, down the same main road in town, past the same trees and streets and houses that I’ve known for nearly seventeen years.  Our new home is nearly ready to welcome us.  We have worked to make it feel like home for ourselves, and for our children.  It is my only hope that this is the home our children come back to, with their friends, their families, their children.  I envision giant, warm holidays here, filled with lots of people, crazy noise, and favorite foods.  Cars in the driveway, children in every bed, the home we have dreamed of for so long.  I love this home already, even as I have loved the home where we now live. 

We have done much to prepare our “old” home for our departure.  She is freshened with new carpet and refinished floors, some new paint, and very tidied rooms.  Our photos are removed, and our rooms seem a little bare, but we are getting ready for the move, and getting our home ready for her new owners, who will care for her and love her as we did. 

“It’s changing months too early,” said my son, a few weeks ago.  My son, who will go to college in the fall, is experiencing all of this change at once.

“Yes,” I said.  “It’s all changing too early,” thinking of how my house has changed, and how my son has changed, growing into a young man, readying himself to go without even realizing.  He, who has said time and time again that the new house represents his move to college, has no idea that he is speaking about himself.  Or does he?  Does he know that “too early” is such an understatement for how I feel about him leaving?  

“It feels like you don’t love this house anymore,” he said.  I feel my heart break.

“Oh,” I said.  “You have no idea.  I love everything about this house.  I love every single thing about it and everything that has happened here.  Children grew here, babies were born here.   But you, actually, were not.  When we moved away from our Baltimore house, it was hard, but it was ok.  In the end, all those memories came with us, and we ended up here, where we love.  Nothing important ever gets left behind.”

I watched him nod, taking it in.  Did he get it?  Did he hear that I could not love him anymore without growing another heart?   No matter what walls would hold him, or how many miles would stretch between our new house and the college he chose, or the fact that the new home wasn’t quite the same, the love would always be constant.  

Our current house has held us through seventeen Christmases and that many birthdays multiplied by the five of us.  Through sicknesses and joy.  It has grown and changed with us, it has weathered the decorating styles of the eighties and nineties, and someone will look back upon it someday and lament how it looks now, which happens to be beautiful.  It has seen dinner parties, friends, sleepovers, tears, laughter, anger and dancing.  Singing in the showers and tap dancing in the kitchen.  There have been slammed doors and loud music, parties, messes, minimal disasters, and major fun.  Thirteen dance recitals, and thousands of baseball games, and the muddy cleats that go with them.  In the front garden, there is a strong Jonathan apple tree, planted when Jono was born.  I will take a sprig to the new house, even though it has always attracted far too many bees.  We will take our peonies from Adam’s parents, and we will take the growth chart from the mud room wall.  (I’m not sure how yet, but I’m working on it.) I find myself taking photos of views from every angle from every window— this surprises me, but I am allowing myself to feel and do whatever makes me feel comfortable about all of this change.

My house, and my boy, don’t look or behave quite the same as they did a few months ago.  It’s sneaking up on me.

Just a few short weeks later, I feel a bit of settling, in both the new house and in my son.  Bricks have been placed in the front porch.  Paint is on the walls.   The college decision has been made, and his stress level has noticeably lessened.  He is enjoying the last days of his senior year, and each day we are seeing him become more and more ready to face the world.  Are we? 

“You know,” I said, “maybe you can take comfort in the fact that we’re all going through some changes at the same time.”  I wonder who it is I am trying to convince with my words, this time.  We are at the new house, walking around, getting to know the place a little bit, together.   In the past, he has seemed uncomfortable here, quick to leave, anxious to get home or on to other things. 

“Maybe,” he said.  “I’m going up to my room.”  He turned away from me and took the stairs, two at a time.

I did what I needed to do downstairs, measuring things, checking carpet samples, before I headed up the tarp-covered stairs into the unfinished bedroom down the hall.  He was there, alone, curled up on the unpainted window seat.  His shoes were kicked off on the floor, and he was reading something on his phone.

“Watcha doin’?” I asked.

“Just taking a nap in my room.”

“Ah.”

I stood in the doorway and watched him for a moment.  I liked seeing him in the room, a little more relaxed in his skin, more at peace in his new space, a little less resistant to the change.  I pray for these small bits of peaceful change as fall approaches and he makes his way, with baby steps, into a smaller dorm room, but into the bigger world out there.

I couldn’t count the blessings that are falling around me right now if I tried, but there’s no denying that there are many changes happening at once.   While the smallest things can make our own lovely house feel less familiar, and our new house feel more like home, I’m not sure what could ever make this boy feel less mine, no matter how much of a man he tries to turn into, no matter what tiny, necessary little steps I see him take toward his next journey.   

And then I realized.  He does not have to feel less mine.  I just have to let him go. 

So boxes and furniture will move, to the new house, and to the dorm.  And in the mad rush of it all, something may be forgotten, but nothing important.  Memories move.  Love moves.  And soon enough, my boy will be back to curl up on his window seat and take a nap.  At home.