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October 2006 |
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Off to college: Displaced son
discovering his place in world |
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James
Pankratz
Special to Parenting |
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Three deflated balloons slumped in the corner of our dining room. They belonged to a displaced person.
His stuff — pillows, comforter, shirts, socks, pants, a desk lamp, a grocery bag filled with microwave popcorn and other snacks, a laptop computer, and a inkjet printer — had crowded the balloons into the corner.
My wife and I were displacing him. Or, more precisely, we were helping him to displace himself.
Just two months earlier, the balloons, emblazoned with the words “Class of 2006” had touched the ceiling and welcomed guests to his graduation party. The culprit in the displacement was not a natural disaster, but a stage of life transition.
Two years ago, I wrote about taking our older son to a college out East. Now it was our younger son’s turn. This time the destination was in the Midwest.
The night before our son’s departure, we went out to eat. For dessert he ordered a slice of the super-duper chocolate cheesecake, which he had spied in the glass display case when we entered the restaurant. The portion was so rich that his mother and I were forced to help with the clean-up. Then we rushed over to Walgreen’s to pick up some items we’d forgotten: a flashlight, a box of Band-Aids, and a tube of triple antibiotic ointment.
The next morning the alarm was set for 6:30, but there was no need to rely on technology. Anxiety placed the wake-up call an hour early. Rain was forecast, so we had loaded most of his essential belongings into the car the night before. His mother accomplished this by a miracle of compacting that would leave Harry Houdini agog. At 8:20 a.m., after a quick prayer, the safari departed.
An hour and a half later, we pulled into the campus, which was swarming with other displaced 18-year-olds and their parents. We lugged the first load up to the third floor, found his room, and with a turn of the key he was staring at his new home. Had it really come to this? After years of living in the comfort of his own room, surrounded by his familiar stuff, he was shoe-horning himself and his stuff into what felt like a cubicle with a roommate he had never seen. The disorientation was palpable.
After talking with a group of complete strangers (his roommate and family) for a half an hour, a tentative arrangement of the room was negotiated that would leave a navigable path through the stuff.
The roommate and family left to look for an Ethernet cable, and we left for lunch. Checking the afternoon itinerary, I discovered a pattern. While our son went off to register for his campus job in food service and get his photo I.D, his mother and I went on an informal tour of the campus. After coming together again for a welcome from the college president in the former chapel, the kids were sent away to meet with their faculty advisors. It was a pattern of coming together and separating.
The dean’s welcoming speech for parents brought it home. He said that up until now you have been the primary molder of your sons’ and daughters’ moral and psychological identity. In college they would find their own answers. When a mother asked if she would be able to get a copy of her son’s grades, the dean replied that she could, but only if he signed a form authorizing the disclosure of the information.
From birth until now the message has been to get involved: attend parent-teacher conferences, be a den leader, watch the soccer game, and check the homework. Three months after high school graduation, the message has changed: stay out, let go, and let your kids discover who they are.
The dean’s speech was classic individuation theory. All families come together so that they can one day separate. This was that day. Our job description as parents was changing dramatically. It was not only our sons and daughters who were feeling displaced.
That evening, as we stood in the parking lot hugging and saying our goodbyes, the rain that was forecast began. Curiously enough, the sky was blue. But I'm sure I felt some water roll down my cheek.
The house is quieter. In the twilight hours I remind myself that that our lodger for the past 18 years, our son, has not really been displaced. He is growing up and discovering where he belongs in the world.
(Pankratz is a marriage and family therapist for Catholic Charities Milwaukee regional office.) |
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