Tag: college

Slap bracelet

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Because I grew up in a family with one sister and no brothers, I find it fascinating to watch the interactions of my two nearly grown boys. On Friday afternoon, C came home from college for a brief visit to watch his sister perform in the high school play. I went to get him, and when we arrived home, C walked in the door, and his younger brother was standing in the kitchen.

“Bro!” C exclaimed. “Give me a hug!” He wanted he hug (I think), but he was challenging his brother. Pushing to see if he’d oblige. C approached the younger, arms outstretched, and wrapped his brother in a hug.

What he didn’t expect was the snappy response he’d receive. W whipped his arms around his brother, wrapping him in a bear hug and pulling him off balance. From where I stood, I only heard the snapping of W’s arms against his brother’s back.

“Oh man!” C coughed as he caught his balance and straightened up. “You’re like a slap bracelet,” he said, referring to the way his brother wrapped around him.

I had to laugh. “Slap bracelet” was the perfect description of the aggressive, albeit playful—physical exchange (i.e. the “hug”) I had just witnessed in my kitchen!

Crazy Thoughts

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By a stroke of pure, dumb luck, college drop off for my son dovetailed beautifully with a weekend camp program we typically attend as a family. While it was unlucky that my college son would not be able to join us at camp, it was lucky that I wouldn’t be spending the weekend at home, where his absence would be most pronounced. A weekend at home would mean I would notice that that house was one quarter less full… that there was an empty bed… that the food wasn’t disappearing from the house as if being consumed by a powerful vacuum. Instead, I would be away, occupied by (most of) my family and some long time friends.

Even away from home, I found myself frequently wondering what my son was doing, who he was with, and how he was navigating his new life in the college environment. Camp was merely a partial distraction, but my son was still in the forefront of my mind.

On the second morning, as we slogged out of the dining hall after breakfast, the sun caught the shape of an incredibly industrious spider crafting a web in the corner of a small alcove near the doorway. The creature was quite large and conspicuous. Had it fallen on someone, there is no doubt a scream fest would ensue.

A small group of us stood transfixed, watching the spider spin its web, carefully attaching silk strands one to another as it wove its deadly trap. It was working on the center of the web, maybe a repair from a recent struggle—there was no question this spider had been eating well in order to achieve its current size.

As I watched the spider, a thought began to creep into my head, eclipsing—no! joining with the thoughts of my son. This spider would make the perfect dorm pet! After all, there were rules against four-legged pets, but the students could have fish. Why not a spider?

A spider would live peacefully in his room, right over his bed, taking care of all the tiny bugs that enter the room. A spider would not take up much room; it would live quietly, weaving webs in the corner over his bed, repairing its web and possibly making it bigger each night. Eventually, the web might interfere with the bed, but by then, my son would be used sharing his space with his unusual pet….

Yes, these thoughts did enter my mind as I watched the spider weave its tangled web, pulling me in to its weaving. For a brief moment, I thought about how very much my son loves spiders (or… not). And how he might be perceived by his dorm mates if he kept a pet such as this in his room.

And then I turned and walked away. Because even though bringing this spider to my son is humorous in theory (or maybe just in my head), the same humor would not be present if I actually appeared at my son’s dorm door, spider in tow. In fact, I might be banned from the campus. Forever.

And as far as the spider goes, it is much better off right where it is.

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[image is a photo of the camp spider, used with the photographer’s permission]

This Moment

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[I began this post last week, right before my son left for college, but I wasn’t able to finish it. Until today.]

The car is packed and sits waiting for the inevitable morning drive to college for freshman drop off. I stare out the window, watching the silent car sitting in the drive, wondering if I will be able to sleep.

Over the past few days, I have lived in a state of internal panic. My mind is bombarded with all of the wisdom I have neglected to impart to my son, the lessons I didn’t remember to teach, the “teachable moments” that have slipped by as I carelessly thought, Next time, I’ll teach that lesson. As a single mother, the burden of guiding and teaching has fallen solely on me, and I know there are things (many things) I have forgotten.

Yet, this day is one that has been looming on the horizon since the birth of this child. It has been talked about, planned for, worked toward, and encouraged for as long as I can remember. As long as my son can remember. My son, my first-born child.

This is the child who taught me how to be a mother. When he was born, the weight and solidity of his tiny infant body in the transition between womb and world was unexpected to me. In the early days and subsequent weeks—months… years—he taught me to sleep lightly, so I could hear the murmurs and cries when he woke. By sleeping lightly, I could hear the disturbances, the coughing, the bad dreams, and the nonsensical phrases uttered in the depths of sleep.

He taught me to watch carefully to protect him from dangers. He taught me to stay a step or two away, so he could explore on his own with me always ready to catch him—physically or metaphorically—if he fell.

I pushed this child gently, urging him to step away when he held tightly and wouldn’t let me out of his sight in his first days of preschool.

He taught me to be brave in the pediatrician’s office—most notably when the doctor was painstakingly and painfully placing four stitches into his three-year-old lip late one February night.

He taught me that my instincts for him, for all of my children, were as valid as a single teacher’s decree. When his preschool teacher advised me to hold him back so that someday he might be a leader, I chose to keep him with his age-peers. He became a leader on his own schedule.

He taught me to love fiercely because childhood is just a blip on a parent’s radar.

This child is the one who taught me how deeply a parent can love.

I now realize that over the years, this child has been teaching me to let go, a lesson that will continue through his college years and beyond. Now, this child is teaching me one of the toughest lessons of all: to say good-bye. Again and again.

Now, it is my job to step back, get out of his way, and watch him continue to grow, with guidance from afar, as he gains independence and finds his path.

This child…. This young man…. This moment.

 

Preparation (2) : The Reaction

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So maybe I went a little overboard on the medical supplies. Then again, maybe not.

My children were away for ten days with their father. While they were gone, I had a bit of time to gather some of the items my son still needed for college. It was during this 10-day span that I created the box of medical supplies.

He asked for a “First Aid kit”—bandaids, Neosporin, pain reliever, cold medicine… the basic stuff. But I knew he’d need more than that. During this time, I also happened upon a post on a social media site with a do-it-yourself medical kit for the college bound student, complete with supplies list. Booyah! So while he asked for a first aid kit, what he got, well….

“Whoa! It’s like I have a scary, overprotective mom!” I heard him exclaim from his room when he first discovered the box. Images of Mrs. Benson from the once-popular television show, iCarly, flooded my mind.

I went to his room to explain. “You know,” I started, in my own defense. “This is all stuff you might need, and other people in your dorm probably won’t have this stuff, so they’ll come to you. Who knows?” I smiled my most innocent, non-crazy smile.

“I don’t even know what half this stuff is,” he stated as he poked through the box. “Saline nasal spray? And this,” he picked up the thermometer. “I wouldn’t even have thought of this.”

“But you might need it,” I shrugged. I pulled out a small box that was tucked along the side. “And covers for it in case other people need to borrow it.”

He pulled out the bottle of ibuprofen, much smaller than the one we keep in our medicine cabinet. “I might need more than this,” he told me.

“That’s fine for now,” I responded. “There are fifty in there.” He continued to poke through the contents. “I put your chapstick in there, too,” I told him. “Oh, and I got you some gloves.” I pointed to the small box of eight medical gloves.

He looked up from the box, his mouth hanging open. “Really?” he finally managed.

“Hey, the first time you have to clean up after someone, you’ll understand why I got them.”

Now, let me explain. I have lived in dorms for more years than most people I know, and I’ve been cleaning up biohazard since before it had that name. First of all, as a freshman in college, I very distinctly remember one night when I cleaned up after my roommate. I’m sure she could have done it once she sobered up, but in the meantime, it was my room, too.

After college, I worked as a dorm parent in boarding schools for many years. I cleaned up my share of biohazard, but the most memorable involved a fist and a window. Enough said.

I certainly hope my son is lucky enough to never need the gloves. But chances are, he might, so it’s best to err on the safe side. And if he becomes an RA in the future, I will definitely spring for a bigger box!

Yes, this medical kit will leave me forever be branded as the crazy, overprotective mom. But one day, when my son needs something for congestion or coughing or dry eyes or whatever, and he looks in his medical kit and finds what he needs, he may just say, “Wow, thank goodness my mother thought of that!”

Campus Hauntings

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“What time do we have to leave tomorrow?” I asked C on the evening before a college open house. He was in the living room, but I was working on dinner in the kitchen.

“Wait, what did you say?” was his response.

“I asked you what time we have to leave in the morning.”

“Oh, phew! I thought you asked me what time I am leaving.”

“You can go by yourself it you want,” I responded, testing the waters, completely not expecting that he would be okay with that.

“I don’t know where I’m going, and you’re the one who asks all the questions,” came his logical retort. And really, he’s right; I would not send him on a college visit alone—I have too many questions.

Because I work at a college and have spent my adult life—my entire life, really—in education, I have lots of questions. And because I work at a college, I know that I am more likely to get a candid answer from the tour guides than from the people who are paid to deliver the institution’s canned marketing message. Yes, I am one of those parents.

While we are touring colleges, the other parents are asking about the safety of the campus. They ask where to find the Health Center. They ask how freshman roommates are selected. I am the parent asking about the advising program, the student retention rate, the weekend activities, the students’ ability to start clubs and programs. I ask if students can rent textbooks at the bookstore… and how many students try to get by without acquiring textbooks. I ask how many RAs per floor, what their toughest job is, and which dorm is the “party dorm.”

And so on a beautiful New England fall day, we are walking around the campus of a small liberal arts college. Our tour guides are both hockey players, and it is clear from the jovial banter that they get along well. There are only three families in our small tour group, and it seems there is not an athlete among the prospective students. Once we get through the athletic facilities—the first stop on the tour, of course—we are outside for a walk to the academic building. We pass a graveyard. The tombstones are leaning, blackened with moss and pitted by hundreds of harsh winters. It is clear that this is a landmark cemetery, one that has had no new residents in a very long time.

The hockey players fail to acknowledge the landmark, but C and I discuss what a great setting this would be for a creative writing class. Our tour guides pick up on the cue and tell us that art classes sometimes visit the small graveyard.

We stop in a building to see both the largest and smallest classrooms on campus, and we discuss the academics. As we leave the building, we are led across the street. Small white clapboard houses, some obviously original New England architecture, line the side of the road, and my mind wanders back to the cemetery.

“So I have a question,” I venture, and the hockey players’ heads turn in unison. “With these older buildings, the cemetery, I just have to ask….” Out of the corner of my eye, I see my son take a step, broadening the distance between us. He knows what is coming. “Do you have any buildings on campus that are haunted?” There is a slight pause and one parent snickers. “Or buildings that are rumored to be haunted.” As we all know, rumors of ghosts are circulated on every campus, whether true or merely to scare the freshmen.

The tour guides snicker and joke about things they have done to each other. And then one of them tells a story about finding his room full of leaves when the screen was intact and his door was locked. But in general, it seems the answer is negative. Or maybe these two young men haven’t heard the rumors….

My son actually finds it somewhat amusing that I ask. And he knows this is just the beginning. I still have two more children with whom to visit colleges. By the time I’m done, I should have some great information for Ghost Hunters!