The first time I left my older daughter for a long stretch – two weeks at summer camp when she was 9 – I was fine. I was fine as I dragged her trunk to the golf cart. I was fine as I made sure she found her cabin and picked out her bunk. I was fine as I hugged her goodbye and reminded her to brush her teeth and wear sunscreen. And then suddenly, about 5 minutes after I drove off, I was very much not fine. I had to pull over on some Alabama country road, crying so hard I couldn’t even see, head down on the steering wheel, tears connecting under my chin and dropping down on to my pants.
But then, almost as quickly as it started, it stopped, and I was OK again.
I knew she would have fun and be well-cared-for. I knew she wouldn’t be lonely – she was bunking with friends she already had from school, and I had no doubt she would make more friends. I knew she would benefit from the independence and would emerge on the other side proud of herself for overcoming any twinges of homesickness she might feel.
A few hours later, I was singing along to songs on the radio and planning how I would pass the time until she came home.
We repeated this every summer for five years. I would say my goodbyes dry-eyed, have a mini-emotional breakdown, and then get over it and embrace what came next.
Now I’m about to do this on a large scale – drive her halfway across the country to New York in a rented SUV big enough to hold all of her clothes and shoes, get her situated in her dorm room, remind her to wear sunscreen (she always brushes her teeth, so I don’t worry about that anymore, but she never remembers to wear sunscreen and in fact mixed it up with bug spray not long ago and came home bright red everywhere but her ankles and neck), and then hug her and drive away – this time not for two weeks but for many months. And I will remind myself that she can take care of herself, that she is ready for this, that she will make friends, that I have raised her well, that letting go is part of the deal.
My husband is urging me to fly back, to leave the rented vehicle in New York and get home as quickly as possible so I get back in my routine and don’t wallow.
But I think I sort of need to wallow. Wallowing is part of my process. So I am sticking to my tried-and-true game plan – I am fully planning to pull over somewhere in New York and cry my eyes out … and then wipe my face off and start driving and planning what the next stage of my life might look like.
And maybe that’s why that old Lucinda Williams song keeps looping in my head — “Once I get to Baton Rouge, I won’t cry a tear for you.” It’s a lie, of course. I will cry a tear (or 300) somewhere north of Manhattan. But like every other time, I’ll get through it. Because letting go is never easy — but it’s also not the end. It’s just another turn in the road, another mile marker on the way to whatever comes next.
