Our son’s room is half packed. His door is open and he’s not here.
He moves out tomorrow. Early in the morning, we’ll drive him the two and a half hours to Charlottesville. We’ll cart duffle bags and laundry baskets full of clothes and Twin XL linens to his dorm room, help him unpack, maybe run around buying stuff we forgot. And then we’ll drive away. I’ll likely sob. He’ll wave and say “SEE YA!” then start his new life.
It’s strange to simultaneously celebrate and mourn not being needed anymore. As parents, our job is to prepare our children to leave us. He feels ready to go out on his own, so I think we’ve maybe done that. And that feels good, and I’m super proud of him and excited for him. The whole world is out there to discover! But it’s hard to let go. His door will stay open after tomorrow, and he won’t come back home to close it. There will only be three of us at the dinner table each night. Tubbles will walk around meowing, looking in every room for him. She won’t find him anywhere. I’ll scratch his Reeses Puffs, American cheese, and bagel requests off my grocery list template.
He’s out with friends right now on his last day. A couple of them have already moved into their dorms at the college here in town. Others will scatter across the east coast in the coming weeks. When he comes home this evening, we’ll go out to dinner together, and he’ll like be packing deep into the night.
At 7 am, we’ll drive away with a car full of him and his stuff. And then we’ll drive home empty.
Good thing we still have our daughter at home.