Tomorrow is the big day, people. I’m headed to the West Coast to drop off one of my twinkies at college. Yikes! What if I can’t do it, without, you know, crying? The horror!
I mean, I should be good, right? It’s not like I haven’t been through this before. When we drove Older Brother down to IU for the first time, I did an amazing job of suppressing my emotions. Now, it helped that he’d chosen a school less than 90 minutes away by minivan and with half of his graduating class in attendance. But still, I handled the adios like a champ. Except for a small meltdown at a Chick-fil-A earlier that summer, I shed no tears whatsoever. “Don’t let the door hit ya’ on the way out, kiddo!”
But this feels radically different. In less than 48 hours, I’ll be single-parenting in a strange city, 2,300 miles from here, saying goodbye to a son whom I once called my boiled chicken baby (his twin sister stole most of the food, so he was born rather puny. I can easily recall rocking him in those first few weeks and thinking, “I shouldn’t be able to see his bones. Where’s the beef?”). And then I’m expected to board a plane, fly home and ignore the fact that it will be Christmas before I see him again? What the fudge, friends? I’m not sure I can do that with dry eyes and a happy face. Seriously, how am I supposed to let this one go?
Tomorrow’s the big day, and he is definitely ready. I’m just worried that I’m not. Peace out.