Two weeks from today I’ll help my son move into his college dorm. Just for the record, I was wrong about everything to do with graduation and the pending adulting of a beloved son.
I had thought I’d cry my eyes out as he walked the stage back in June. Nope, not really. Too many people there, many family and dear friends in town, lots of support, fun, cheers, and the typical proud moment pictures. There was too much distraction for the welling up and bubbling up of emotions. Ah, the typical suppression that busyness successfully executes!
Now it’s the rubber meets the road. The two roads in the journey for the parent and the child — now a young adult. The packing and buying and sorting and throwing out and viewing old times and the pausing over childhood photos in frames makes the tug on my heart a little deeper. A little more real. It winces, it aches, it opens and closes like never before.
I’ve been organizing this summer and almost ‘lost it’ as I perused a cabinet filled with old water bottles and tumblers. In the back was a matching Star Wars thermos. You know, the ones from Pottery Barn and those adorable matching over-priced lunch boxes. For some reason, my heart sank with the mere glance of the thermos. How many lunches have I made? How many little snacks and such have been put in there with love over the years? Countless.
And so with transition and grief, comes these unexpected triggers. They are numerous and they can be different for every parent. But they are there.
And there’s nothing you can do about it, but lean in, allow all the feelings to flow and ooze out your heart.
My dad told me once, “you either spend happy money on your kids or sad money”. I know that to be true. I also know that my tears are not really sad tears. I know parents experience extreme grief at Children’s Hospital and other life events. I know many stories.
Thankfully I have not. So if I have some tears because he’s all grown up, and not using a lunch box anymore, well then, bring it on. Tissues can count as happy money.
Be back after a few loads of laundry,
xx C. Nor
Fashion Stories & Dirty Laundry 