"Once there was a way to get back home." The Beatles

My son is leaving home. I know it’s time for him . . . but not for me. I think if I had a few more kids about, it wouldn’t be as traumatic, but I’m probably wrong. Maybe because I had him when I was a bit more mature, I understand how lucky I am to be his mom. I still cringe when I see some harried "mother" yelling at her child in the grocery store, or worse yet, just ambling ambivalently along as an infant without a choice screams its lungs out, probably for food or drink . . . or a little affection. This mother is usually way too young with about three kids under four years of age grouped around her. I find it highly disturbing.

Oh, I haven’t been perfect, and those times that I haven’t been will always haunt me, but I know one thing--if I ever felt that I came up short, I apologized. I’m not a yeller; I’m not a demeaning person; and I probably spoiled David, but not so much that he doesn’t fall over backward thanking me when I buy him so much as a box of animal crackers (which he still loves, by the way), a characteristic of his that only wants me to give him more. No matter the occasion, the kid has never whined about something he didn't get. Every birthday, every Christmas, to him has been "the best ever!"

When I was a kid, I made a promise to myself: If I ever have a child, I will tell that child that I love him or her AT LEAST once a day, and I will hug that child every chance I get! I think it’s the only resolution I have ever made that I have absolutely kept.

So I’m helping David pack up his room, the one that he keeps in monklike, precise order. I tell his girlfriend that I feel for her, and I know he’s in for some reality checks. He arranges his many books perfectly, along with his albums, but he’s no dweeb. In fact, with his humor (and I must add, good looks—I’m his Mom, after all, so give me a break!), he’s usually the life of the party, and the life of this house. As I help him fill boxes and try to give practical packing advice, I start to remember when, eight months pregnant, I stood on a ladder and stenciled Teddy bears across the wall borders. Of course, I had to paint over those when he went into Batman mode, and then came the neutral shade, plastered over with Pink Floyd, Jimmy Hendrix, Beatles, Steve McQueen, and Paul Delaroche posters—he has good taste, in this nonbiased Mom’s opinion. So I think it only natural that as we’re stowing his life into boxes, I start to tear up a bit.

“Focus Mom! I can’t handle that yet. You MUST wait for the actual moving day,” he instructs.

“Okay, okay. You’re right. Must maintain,” I reply. And we continue. Then, “You know you could always become one of those guys who stays at home and I could feed you whatever you want. Then you’d get depressed and become the thousand-pound man and we’d eventually have to have the back wall removed and take you out on a gurney,” I suggest.

“That’s always a fallback plan,” he assures me.

I don’t tell him that old adage about not being able to come back home, because it is so painfully true. Even if you do fall on hard times and return to your old room for a time, it’s never really home again. Wow, when I had my first apartment, I put one suitcase and a few books in the car and headed South to meet up with my sister in Atlanta. This kid, in comparison, has it made.

Still, when I drive away from that place, I’ll see the same little guy that wanted to walk into the school by himself on the “third” day of Kindergarten, the kid who grinned, waved, and ran into the school without me.

And, just like that day, I can guaran-damn-tee ya, I’m going to sob all the way home.