C-Day Minus Four
My eighteen-year-old son leaves for college in four days. Actually, his father, sister and I are leaving with him. We, however, will be returning home.
Preparations are going as well as can be expected.
My son is counting the days with a gusto that only eighteen-year-old hormones in anticipation of no curfew can exhibit.
His father is in recovery from calculating tuition, room and board and books.
I am trying to maintain some sort of balance between the blithering, menopausal no-it’s-too-soon-he’s-my-baby mom and the you-taught-him-well-now-let-him-fly mother.
And so I am preparing for his flight.
Since he’ll be three hours deep into the cornfields of west central Illinois with only a Walmart, KMart and Walgreens to which to turn for civilization, I am seeing to it that the boy has what his mother says he needs.
Ground zero is the basement ping pong table. Six open cardboard boxes await my packing instructions.
The extra-long sheet set which has, of course, been freshly laundered since how could anyone think of sleeping on sheets fresh out of the wrapper. One bunny soft blue blanket which he’ll need when it gets cold, he just doesn’t know it yet. A fluffy pad to give some ooomph to the piece of cardboard that university housing calls a mattress. And his old comforter because a new one won’t have embedded dog hair and cigar ashes to remind him of home.
Shower flip flops so at least his feet remain free of communicable diseases. Enough shampoo, shower gel, razors, deodorant and body spray to make it through Thanksgiving or my first visit, whichever comes first.
One large jar of peanut butter and an extra large bag of Tostitos (don’t ask) for when he sleeps through breakfast. Or lunch. Or supper.
Other assorted items which I decide between now and Saturday that he needs.
And those items which his father can see to it that he gets because I’m the mother and I refuse to acknowledge his need for such things.
Stay tuned.