I’ve written about this before, and I’ll write about it again. I know some mamas need to read this. They are struggling with the new normal after dropping off a child at college.
It’s the silence. It is so loud, it’s deafening.
It was 26 years ago, yet I remember it as if it were yesterday. Emily and I drove the two hours and six minutes to Indiana State University in Terre Haute. Yes, I counted the minutes. We arrived there so quickly both that day and in the years when Emily was growing up.
We carry the totes, baskets, and clothes on hangers into the dorm. I don’t have time to think about the empty room and closet that I’ll see when I get back home. I make the bed, which is tucked snugly in her dorm room. What about the bed at home that won’t need to be made for weeks?
We drive to Walmart to pick up a few things we forgot. Have I taught her everything she will need to know? Does she remember how to separate clothes so she doesn’t end up with a shrunken blouse that I paid too much for? Does she remember that Fels-Naptha is the best stain remover? Have I taught her how to survive on her own? Trouble is, no one has taught me how to live without her daily presence.
Does she know how much I need her? I cover up my aching heart with chatter and laughter. Emily, you’ve got this! How fun this is going to be! I tell myself I’ve got this! I’m lying.
Photo provided
The drive back home seems to take hours. I have trouble taking a deep breath. My chest feels like a thousand memories are lying on it.
I walk inside the back door, and I hear it. It is so loud. It’s the quiet.
That was 26 years ago, yet I remember. Oh, how I remember.
Emily called me last week. She was washing the football uniform of soon-to-be-15-year-old Aiden. She told me she was scrubbing it with … Fels-Naptha. I had to laugh. I taught her well. She remembered.
In four years, she will take Aiden to college. She will understand how I felt all those many years ago when I drove her to Indiana State University. Should I tell her how fast it will go? Should I tell her she needs to grab every chance for a hug … even if he shrugs it off a bit? Should I tell her that the 45-minute trip in the car to Tampa Jesuit every morning will give her the opportunity to equip him with encouraging words, advice, and priceless time together? Yes, the time spent driving in Tampa traffic will be brutal, but in four years, she will treasure it – even the silent moments when he is sleeping.
I need to tell her to embrace and pack in those fun, yet exhausting, moments of high school. Take a gazillion pictures, even the ones where he won’t be serious.
Here’s another thing I need to tell her. Those kids who call you ‘Mama’ and look nothing like you? You will still be their “other” mother when they are grown. How do I know? I still get called Mama Janet all these years later. I will forever keep track of my red-headed daughter from another mother, Sarah. I follow sweet Renee on social media, who spent many a night at our house. And of course, your best friend since you were two, Angie, who became your sister-in-law and is like a daughter to me. I still love them and pray for them. You will do the same with Aiden’s friends.
This will again happen with Leah, who is two years younger than Aiden. It doesn’t get easier with each child. It just hits differently. It’s one of the most challenging aspects of being a parent. You are not told how hard it will be.
Your house will be less messy. Your refrigerator will be full. You will have to learn to cook less food. You will mark your calendar for the times your kids will all be home. Each time they leave, you will have recurring episodes of empty heart syndrome.
You will look at the clock and think it’s 3:00; they will be home soon. Then your heart remembers where they are. Why does it have to hurt so much?
Every time Emily and I talk about the day I took her to ISU, she remembers the next day when she came to Riverview Hospital to visit me. You see, after I got home after dropping her off, the chest pains worsened, and I was admitted to the hospital with an anxiety attack. Acute empty heart syndrome was ‘my’ diagnosis.
All you mamas out there who are hurting, I see you. I know your pain, and you may not believe me, but … it will get better. Just know the pain reoccurs if they move 988 miles away, like my daughter did. My heart knows exactly how many miles away she moved. And believe it or not … I’m okay. It just took time. Once I saw her so happy, I realized that was all that mattered.
Janet Hart Leonard can be contacted at janethartleonard@gmail.com or followed on Facebook or Instagram (@janethartleonard). Visit janethartleonard.com.