I won't miss his counsel about the mistakes I make raising his younger brother. In fact, he still dwells on the mistake I made in having his younger brother, and I'm tired of hearing it.
I won't miss his stubbornness, either. Once, when he was four years old, we made a dealhe would stop sucking his thumb and I would stop smoking. He quit sucking his thumb on the spot and never put it in his mouth again. I still smoke.
What kind of person is that to have around the house? Who would miss such a stubborn, strong-willed boy? He's like this about everything.
And noisy! I'm sure not going to miss how noisy he is. He's always laughing too loud. He's so ready to see the humor in something, he even laughs when I tell a story that makes him look the fool.
Like the Mr. Blib story. I call him Mr. Blib because he once told me he was blib.
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"You know Mom, I'm pretty blib," he told me.
"Blib?" I said. "What's blib?"
"You knowgood with words," he said glibly.
Now who could miss such a blib boy? A boy who laughs at himself when I tell this story?
I'm sure not going to miss talking to him at the dinner table or having a late-night snack with him when he comes home from a date. And skiing with himwhy would I miss that? He goes too fast, anyhow.
And I sure won't miss him relying on me for advice. What's the big deal? Who cares if he starts making all his own decisions and doesn't need me anymore?
Look, I'm ready for this, no problem.
It's just him. He's the one I'm worried about.
Beth Mullally
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A Dad Says Good-Bye
I watched her and her mother decorate her college dormitory room. Everything in place, organized and arranged, just so. Attractively designed bulletin board with carefully selected, and precisely cut, colored paper. Pictures and remembrances throughout of her dearest friends. Drawers and boxes under the bed. Her room nicely accommodates not only her clothes, accessories and bric-a-brac, but her roommate's as well. I closely monitor that which I would have, in the past, ignored, knowing that this time is different. As her half of the room takes on her essence, I begin to accept that her room at home is no longer hers. It is now ours. Our room for her when she visits.
I find myself thinking of when I held her in the cradle of my arm, in the chair alongside my wife's hospital bed. One day old. So small, so beautiful, so perfect, so totally reliant on her new, untested parents. All manner of thoughts went through my mind as I examined her every feature for what seemed to be an eternity. Time marches relentlessly.
She looks up now, catching me staring at her, causing her to say to her mother, "Mom, Dad's looking at me funny."
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The last few days, I touch her arm, her faceany thingknowing that when my wife and I return home, she will not be with us and there will be nothing to touch. I have so much to say, but no words with which to say it.
My life changed from the day I drove this child home from the hospital. I saw myself differently that day, and it has led to a lot of places that I would never have found on my own.
She says, "It'll be all right, Dad. I'll be home from school soon." I tell her she will have a great year, but I say little else. I am afraid somehow to speak, afraid I'll say something too small for what I'm feeling, and so I only hold on to our good-bye hug a little longer, a little tighter.
I gaze into her eyes and turn to go. My wife's eyes follow her as she leaves us. Mine do not. Maybe if I don't look, I can imagine that she really hasn't gone. I know that what she is embarking upon is exciting and wonderful. I remember what the world looked like to me when everything was new.
As I walk to the car with my wife at my side, my eyes are wet, my heart is sore, and I realize that my life is changing forever.
Joseph Danziger
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College Talk
It seemed to come on like the flu. Suddenly, out of nowhere, everyone was talking about college. Lunchtime discussions changed from who's dating whom into who's going to what college and who did or did not get accepted. And just like the flu leaves it's victims feeling awful and helpless, such was the case for this new fascinating subject and me.
I don't clearly remember the actual conversations. I do, however, remember why I wasn't interested in all this ''college talk." We didn't have enough money for me to go to a real college. I would begin my college years at a junior college. This was the final word and I had accepted it. I didn't even mind terribly. I just wished everyone would stop talking about this university and that Ivy League school.
The truth is, I was jealous. I had worked so hard to get good grades in school and for what? Each time I found out someone else I knew had just been accepted to the college of their dreams I would turn a deeper shade of green. I didn't like feeling this way, but I couldn't help it. It felt like they were going to jump ahead of me. They were going to have the big life experiences that turn a teenager into an adult and I was going to get left behind.
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My boyfriend was very sweet and barely mentioned it every time an envelope arrived for him with a ''Congratulations, you've been accepted to yet another college of your choice!" I knew about them only because his parents lacked the sensitivity with which he was so blessed. He always shrugged it off and would tell me, "You would have had the same response. Watch, you'll get a full scholarship to the college of your choice in two years and you can laugh at us all for foolishly killing ourselves to arrive at the same place." He had a point. I just thought it was awfully sweet of him to make sure I saw it this way.
My friends and I kept in touch those first few months and, more often than not, I was the one offering words of support and understanding. They spoke of roommates from hell, classes they couldn't get into, and the ones they did being so big they couldn't even see their professor. Not only could I see mine, but one of my favorites invited us to his house on a lake. We would go there for class and stay hours afterwards talking and sharing our theories on human behavior. It was because of this class that I decided to major in psychology.
Needless to say, my tortured thoughts of being left behind while they went out and gathered life experiences in huge doses changed to thoughts of counting my blessings. I was getting a fine serving of life experience. I was letting go of friends and my first true love. I was moving into a humble abode that for the first time in my life I could call my own and I was taking a full load of classes by choice, not requirement.
As time passed and I grew more and more comfortable with my circumstances, I was also able to understand something I hadn't when I was angry and envious. Real life will be filled with moments of friends making more or loved ones being promoted first. When these things happen, I know I will be prepared. I have already had a taste of this experience and I passed the test quite nicely.
Kimberly Kirberger
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The "No Hug" Rule
The first day of kindergarten
He hurried to the door
Shrugging off his mother's hugs
He didn't need them anymore
For he was all grown up now
Too big for all that stuff
Instead he waved a quick good-bye
Hoping that would be enough
When he came home from school that day
She asked what he had done
He handed her a paper
With a big round yellow sun
For he'd messed up here and there
But she didn't seem to notice
Or she didn't seem to care
The first day of junior high
He hurried to the door
Running from his mother's hugs
He didn't want them anymore
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He ignored her calling out to him
As he hurried down the street
Near the intersection
Where his friends had plan
ned to meet
He hoped that she would understand
Why he had to walk to school
Riding with his mother
Just wouldn't have been cool
And when he came home from school
She asked what he had done
He handed her some papers
With Xs marked on more than one
The teacher clearly pointing out
The wrong answers here and there
But his mother didn't seem to notice
Or she didn't seem to care
The first day of senior high
He hurried out the door
Jumped into the driver's seat
Of his jacked-up shiny Ford
He left without his breakfast
He left without a word
But he turned and looked back
Before pulling from the curb
He saw her waving frantically
As he drove away
He tapped his horn just once
To brighten up her day
He saw a smile cross her face
And then he drove from sight
Onward to a different world
A new exciting life
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And at his graduation
As tears shone in her eyes
He knew the time had come
To bid his mom good-bye
For he was off to college
Off to better days
No more rules to abide
Alone to find his way
Suitcases filled the trunk
Of his dirty beat-up Ford
He couldn't wait to get to school
To check out his room and dorm
She opened up his car door
Closed it when he got in
Then smiled proudly at her son
As tears dropped from her chin
She reached through the open window
Wished him luck in school
And then she pulled him close to her
And broke the "no hug" rule
He felt the freedom greet him
As he pulled out on the interstate
At last his life was his alone
He anticipated fate
College life was more challenging
Than he ever could have hoped
There was no time to respond to letters
His mother often wrote
He was a grown adult now
Too old for all that stuff
His visits during holidays
Would have to be enough
Besides, midterms were quickly coming
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The pressure was immense
He studied late into the night
His need to pass intense
He wondered how he'd manage
How he'd ever cope
What if he failed his tests?
Would there be no hope?
As if he had a calling
He headed down the interstate
Driving at full speed
The hour getting late
He pulled up to the curb
Where once he used to roam
And went through the open door
Of his mother's home
She was sitting at the table
With a drawing in a frame
Memories from the past
That brought both joy and pain
She didn't need to ask
Why he was home from school
Because she knew the answer
When he broke the "no hug" rule
His arms around her tightly
Peering at the drawing he had done
Lots of trees, imperfect branches
And a big round yellow sun
She smiled a knowing smile
And then she spoke aloud
"Son you always did
And you always will make me very proud
For look how far you've traveled
From that little boy so brave
Heading off to kindergarten
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Your hand up in a wave
And through the years you've made mistakes
But son I've made them, too
Being perfect is not an option in life
Simply do the best you can do
And don't expect more than that
For life is supposed to be fun
You've only got one to live
Do what is best for you son"
Sitting in his dorm room
When the pressure seems too much
And all that he is striving for
Seems completely out of touch
He peers at the drawing
Of a big round yellow sun
And then he is reminded
Of just how far he's come
From childhood to manhood
Fighting back many a fear
Through trials and tribulations
Holding back many a tear
Knowing that being successful
Isn't passing every test
And the only way to falter in life
Is by failing to do his best
And the biggest lesson he's learned
One he did not learn in school . . .
That it's okay, for even a man
To break the "no hug" rule
Cheryl Costello-Forshey
Page 48
Shoes in the Shower
You've never done this before. You can't even come up with some neat comparison to a past experience to make you feel less awkward. It doesn't help that everyone else is doing it, since it's because of them that you have to do it in the first place. Suddenly you have to accept this totally backward behavior as if it were logical, from now on, no end in sight.
In college you wear shoes in the shower. You are halfway across the country, living by yourself for probably the first time. Your childhood seems like it's over. You are surrounded by people you don't know, from places you've never been, who probably all have athlete's foot. Your dorm room is supposed to be the same one you saw on your college tour, but you know it's smaller, colder and uglier than the one you saw when your mom was with you. You walk in and are standing in front of a girl you've never met, who you will have to live with all year. She is dressed differently from you and is from a state you've never visited. You probably have nothing in common. No amount of protective footwear is too drastic under these circumstances.
The first few days are like a dream. The shower continues to be the testing ground for your ability to adapt to
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these conditions. You are sure that everyone but you has figured out how to shave her legs in these small cubicles. You glance wistfully at the people in the hall, wondering who could possibly fill in for the best friend you left at home, in whose bathroom you could always go barefoot.
You cry yourself to sleep a couple of times and find yourself counting the days until Thanksgiving. What were you thinking? The state college thirty minutes away would have been just fine, probably much safer. You call home and tell your parents how homesick you are. Sure, you went to that party Saturday night, which was okay, but surely they understand that that's nothing compared to your misery. Your parents say "Give it a chance" so often that you become convinced that they are putting the phone down next to the family parrot and walking away.
But after a while, the Shoeless Night happens. It comes to everybody, sooner or later. Perhaps for you it is a midnight McDonald's run with some girls on your floor and a post-McNugget conversation, way into the night. Your fear of various foot diseases begins to fade somewhat. You might actually like some of the girls.
You might still cry yourself to sleep that night, but something's changed. For a few hours, you got to remove the mythical shoes from the feet of your soul. Because the important thing about The Night is that it is followed by Other Nights. The night of party hopping is preceded by a two-hour primping session with the same girls, before piling far too many of you into one car. The nig
ht of stealing other halls' furniture together allows you to let them see you in the morning after an "I'm too tired to wash my face" night.
Eventually, when you need to cry (because you still might, for a while), you find yourself walking down the hall to someone else's room instead of getting on the phone to
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your parents. When you do call them, all you can talk about is that girl down the hall who understands everything you say and listens so well. Your parents are thrilled and begin teaching the parrot to say, "That's great, Honey!"