Sandy Slaga

Cornfields, Cher & Letting Go

Corn. Lots of it. Early morning in late August, and we are en route to my son’s freshman year in college. And there’s corn. Complete with tassels. You could spot drop a teenager into the middle of one of those fields and it’d be months before he’d surface.

My husband’s behind the wheel of our 1997 Jeep Grand Cherokee since it’s the only one of our vehicles big enough for the task at hand. My son is semi-conscious in the front passenger seat.

A mega latte and I are in the right rear passenger seat next to my son’s laptop and a 3-drawer plastic storage chest filled with enough undershirts and socks to keep him out of the dorm laundry room for at least 2 weeks. Boxes are piled behind me along with the must-have 27″ flat screen TV which will be used, I’ve been assured, for educational purposes only. The upside is that I’m packed so tightly I’ll be sure to survive a rollover.

I’m iPodding Cher’s “Do You Believe in Life After Love” and Pure Prairie League’s “Amy” and looking at the cornfields. Not because the songs have anything to do with this moment but because if I blast them loudly enough, I’m blissfully distracted from the anvil on my chest and the lump in my throat.

I’ve been thinking about this day for months. One more chance to have our son as a captive audience to the wisdom that only a mother can give. I let an hour pass, listening to father and son do their man talk. I sip my latte and gather my thoughts.

The chatter ends. I let several more minutes pass in silence. When he’s good and relaxed, he’ll be more receptive.

“Caleb,” I begin, my voice quivering. “There are some things I want to say ….”

My husband turns and gestures. I glance forward.

My son is asleep.

I flash back to the first time I left him with a babysitter. His first day of kindergarten in his navy blue uniform shorts and white short-sleeved polo shirt, wearing a backpack almost as big as he and holding a role of contact paper.

More Cher and Pure Prairie League.

“You guys could go get my books while Ivan and I are setting up the room,” my son suddenly announces.

I snap out of my precious memories moment.

“Sure, son. Not only are we just waiting for another opportunity to open the checkbook, but please, let us pick up and deliver, too.”

I’d read in one of those annoying “letting go” books that you’d know when it was time to leave your college freshman on move-in day. You’d look around the room after unpacking and organizing closet space and drawers, which is a special mother-son bonding thing, and you’d see your child looking back at you. No words. Just The Look.

I wasn’t sure if I’d recognize The Look. I was used to giving it, not being the recipient.

So after I’d rearranged the closet and drawers he’d just organized, and I’m using that term very loosely, I looked across the room. He and his roommate were figuring out where to put the micro-fridge. I caught his eye. And I knew.

I’m fine. We’ll be seeing him in five weeks.

Now where the hell is my iPod?