With painstaking attention to her preferences, I spent time last week preparing for Emily’s first return from college. She has been gone since August 23, and while my husband and I have seen her once, during Parents’ Weekend on her campus, she has not been home for almost three months. We have really been looking forward to having Emily home for Thanksgiving, picturing lingering meals, with no pressure to be anywhere else, and easy, joyful conversations, maybe with me sitting on the end of her bed.
I spruced up her room and freshened her sheets, put flowers in her bathroom, and got a few little treats for her bedside table – a holiday cookie magazine (she misses having a kitchen for baking), some mints, a little chocolate from South America, and a special, hand-made greeting card with a picture of a shimmering egg, nestled on a lovely, heirloom nest. The message reads “Welcome home, little one.” I added my personal message, sure she would be touched.
Imagine then, my shattering disappointment when Emily announced on the phone a few days before her arrival that she planned to have her boyfriend pick her up at the airport Thursday night, and from there, head right to College Park, so she could “hang out with some friends.” She said she’d be home by Sunday. (Sunday??!!) I was unable to respond. We were hurt, and stunned, and at a loss for the proper course. We know she’s been enjoying unfettered independence since the end of summer, but where did she get the idea that she could spend the weekend in her boyfriend’s dorm room? Three months ago, we wrung our hands about whether she should be able to join his family at the beach for a few days. What has changed in those few weeks?
The answer is: plenty. She doesn’t live here anymore. We no longer set the rules for how she uses her time, where she goes, what she does or doesn’t do. Leaving for college is a right of passage and point of departure, with no certain path for return. It will never be the way it used to be again. Although she is only 18, and still dependent on us for so many practical things, we will have to learn to respect her new freedom, and learn how to live with what we can control – our own actions and reactions.
So, we called Emily back. We told her we expected to pick her up from the airport this first time home, and that we expected her to come here, to the house, at least for the first night. She asked, “Are you making me?” We said, “yes.” Whatever that means. Our concession, which I think was HUGE, was that she could leave for College Park, and friends, in the morning. It felt like compromise to us.
The drive from the airport, predictably tense, was punctuated only by sharp tones, disappointed words, exchanged in both directions. Through the door, she turned back into the petulant 12 year old she has grown out of, rolling her eyes at the food in the refrigerator, complaining about the off-white bedspread I’ve replaced for her tie-die. We bickered. Her little brothers came in, probably to stop us from fighting, and they all wrestled together. I was grateful, as the mood softened. A while after I left her room, I heard the steady, low tone of conversation, short stories with lulls and giggles, shared with her sister. The friction had eased. She was under our roof. And as I laid my own head down, I whispered my quiet prayer, “welcome home, little one.”