When it’s time for them to leave, part 2

After chronicling Julia’s senior year departure in part 1, I had one more big event to look forward to: Sophia’s move into her freshman year dorm. With a broken foot.

Somehow, Sophia’s move hits differently. I am exhausted: both physically and emotionally. The climb seemed steeper on this one. Now that we are over the apex, I’m honestly feeling a little lost. Of course, having to confine myself mostly to the couch doesn’t help, but that’s an whole other blog post for another time. I find myself in a nebulous place in my brain for a host of reasons.

Julia was 20 when she first went away. Her first two years of college were local, and she lived at home as the pandemic was slowly lifting. She had a few extra years to mature, get used to the college way of life before taking the leap of living away from home. Sophia is not yet 18. She’s young and save for some grandparent overnights, has never been away from home. She’s very much been in the couch potato realm during her adolescence. Needless to say, knowing the bustle that college life is, we had all sorts of feelings about her moving into this new phase of life.

I talked about the buildup to this moment in an earlier blog post; the application process, the prom, graduation, and everything that led up to the empty nesting moment. That post was the anticipation of this space we are in right now.

We were fortunate to be able to break down the move-in process into two pieces. Sophia is in a program that gave her the ability to drop the bulk of her things into her dorm room the Friday before. Sunday was the official move-in day for first-year students. With a broken foot, that process was definitely tricky (I talk about that challenge here), but it was manageable.

The first two hours of the day were filled with finding places for everything, assembling her bed, making sure things were clean (Lysol wipes rock). Basically, setting her up to be as comfortable and self-sufficient as she can while she navigates this brand new version of her life.

Once everything was in place, there was a family barbecue for lunch on the lawn. It was a beautiful (hot) day so we parked ourselves on a hill under a shady tree where we ate. Well, Chris and I ate; Sophia hung back at the dorm waiting for a few of her new friends, then joined us later. She and Chris also found the bookstore, where she picked up her books and a few other forgotten items (like shampoo, soap and conditioner). Classes would start on Wednesday so she was all set.

This would lead right into the final part of the day, the traditional Arching Ceremony, the school’s rite of passage. In the middle of the campus, outside the academic complex, there is a beautiful archway. First year students walk through it in a processional towards the academic building on move-in day, symbolizing the moment they officially become Roadrunners (their mascot). They do the reverse course as seniors on graduation day. Family and friends line the pathway, cheering their kids on. It is a beautiful and intense moment, mostly for the parents, because it marks a significant transition: when your child takes one step further away from you and it was not lost on me. We had secured our spot on the other side of the arch so we could see her walk through it. As I waited, phone perched carefully in my hand with my finger ready to take the pictures, I cried. She’s not a baby, and yet, she’s my baby.  

We watched over 1000 kids pass through the arch. Our kid was one of the last to come through, smile and wave, and walk right by. And just like that, she was officially a Roadrunner.

We made our way through the crowd, noise, and celebrating kids and eventually found ours. She was already looking for a new friend to pair up with, which she found as we found her. We realized this was the time to go. It was her time to grow. We gave her hugs and a few quick words of encouragement and said our goodbyes. Then, it was time to walk away.

We walked from the arch, down the long path to the garage. I started sobbing right away. He waited until we were in the car. There’s a weird hole in your chest that suddenly opens up when you walk away from your kid. You want to check in and make sure she’s okay, she has everything she needs, and heaven forbid you forget anything (like laundry detergent, which we did). We took a moment to feel all the feels before driving away. It only took ten minutes to get home, but it suddenly felt like we were worlds apart.

Heading towards a house with just two humans, two canines and one feline is weird. This is our empty nest. I’ve been looking forward to it for months and now it’s here. I’m happy, and discombobulated. It’s quiet, and a bit eerie. It’s time to figure out what life is like without even one of the children in the house, to be a couple of adults who have been through a labyrinth of life, sometimes pushing, sometimes pulling, getting lost and standing still. Remembering who we were and figuring out who we are now is the task at hand. Most everyone with kids goes through this process. It’s our turn now. 

I believe she’s more excited than we care to admit. She needs to be away from us to figure out what the word “independent” really means. I have a feeling she will be a very different version of herself soon. I can’t wait to meet her.

On Monday, we had a quick check-in on FaceTime. She was on the quad, in-between opening week events. She was happy and had a little sparkle in her eye. She was meeting people, having fun and starting to explore what being a college student is all about.