Skip to content
Author
PUBLISHED: | UPDATED:

few minutes ago I got off the phone with my daughter, who is a freshman at UC Berkeley. Breathless, she called to tell me how incredibly busy she was, her life spiraling out of control with all the things she needed to get done. Huffing and puffing as she ran from her last class to her dorm, she told me about her day and all the things she had planned for the night. 

I got in a few “uh-huhs” and “wows” and “ohs,” but mostly the conversation was a one-sided discourse about her amazing life away from me. Excitedly she told me that she was chosen as a CalSO leader (CalSO is UC Berkeley’s summer orientation program for incoming freshmen). The announcement ceremony was tonight after her sorority meeting and before her Rally Committee event (she and a few others are in charge of letting the Greek houses know about the pregaming festivities for the upcoming rivalry game between Berkeley and Stanford). After that she would try to eat something then planned to study for her chem midterm. Her target for sleep was 2 a.m. 

As she went on and on about everything she was doing and how she was going to manage it, it dawned on me that her getting the CalSO job meant she wouldn’t be coming home for the summer, and the revelation hit me like a fist to the chest. 

I think I’ve shouldered this empty-nest thing pretty well. Since she left — my youngest, my baby — I have picked myself up by my Rainbow sandal straps and gotten on with my life. I haven’t moped around the house or resorted to watching soap operas and eating bonbons. Very maturely and valiantly, I have expanded my life. I joined a yoga gym. I called friends I lost touch with. I started playing more golf, joined an artists’ group, made the effort to go out more — movies, concerts, restaurants, parties, galleries. Successfully I have recalibrated who I am and embraced being an empty-nester. But all of that was done with the quiet knowledge that she was coming home — first for Thanksgiving, then for the holidays, then for spring break, and then … drum roll … for summer! Twelve glorious weeks of us being together again. 

Secretly I have been planning for the reunion, thinking about all the things we were going to do. Perhaps a trip to Europe? Definitely lots of golf and surfing. Maybe a backpacking or river-rafting expedition? Ideas circled around in my head, flittering in and out, not so much counting down the days as counting on the time when we could do all the things I have been hoping and waiting to do with her.

And now, just like that, she wasn’t coming home. My plans were thwarted, decimated — the time I had been looking forward to now just another fuzzy line on the distant horizon. 

She didn’t realize the monumental blow she had struck. On and on she talked excitedly, unaware I had stopped responding, listening, breathing — a lump lodged in my larynx that didn’t allow for air. 

I get that as mothers we need to adapt. Our role when our kids are babies is not the same as it is when they are toddlers, preschoolers, teenagers … college students. I accept that as kids get older the relationship shifts to be more on their terms, the job of parent reduced to that of cheerleader and sounding board more than that of authoritarian and caregiver, a diminished role I have stoically accepted. But losing so much of her so quickly — that I wasn’t prepared for. My daughter has not only left the nest, she has soared from it, found her wings and left me behind in a cloud of pixie dust.

“Mom? You there?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. So after CalSO, you’ll come home?” I said. The orientation, if I remembered right, was only offered during the first nine weeks of summer.

Silence. A sudden break in the conversation, as if it had only then occurred to her that being a CalSO leader meant she wouldn’t be coming home, and my heart leapt with hope. Perhaps she would reconsider, realize it was too much of a sacrifice to stay in Berkeley year round. 

“I can’t,” she said after a moment, squelching the ember of optimism. “I have Camp Kesem. Remember? I told you about it, the retreat for families struggling with cancer. It starts a week after CalSO ends.”

Another staggering blow followed by another quick recalibration. Adapt — the No. 1 rule of parenting —  and roll with the punches. “So you’ll come home for the week in between?” I managed, my voice tight.

Her voice remained buoyant. “Maybe, but I think the Yosemite group from last summer is planning a reunion trip, and that will be the only week I have.”

I bit back the baleful moan of, So you’re not coming home at all? And instead, in my well-trained mom voice, I said, “It sounds like you have an amazing summer planned.”

“I know, right? Can you believe it?” 

And I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Despite my despair, parental instinct required it — the  reactive or sympathetic joy at your child’s happiness. I was both miserable and joyous at the same time, the dual edge of parenting, loving another human being so much it can rip you to shreds. 

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m at my dorm and need to get changed. Blue shirt or white?”

“It’s freezing outside. Black sweater and your heavy leggings, not the thin ones.”

“Right.”

“And a jacket.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I felt her rolling her eyes and smirked. 

“And make sure you eat something,” I said just for good measure.

“Mo-o-om.” The word held out for three long syllables.

“Something healthy.”

“You done?”

“Yeah, I’m done. Have fun tonight and be safe.”

“I will.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And that’s all there is to say about that.