STEPS DEFINE TIME SPENT WITH CHILDREN
On a Friday night, I left
town with my daughter. On Saturday, I
came back a much older man. Twenty hours
have aged me twenty years.
There’s no way to escape
it: I am no longer a young adult. Young adults have children at home. After two decades of parenthood, that time
has come and gone. Just outside our
bedroom door, both kids’ rooms lie quiet.
Not even the dog goes there now.
My daughter and I pull up
to the campus in a rental car full of suitcases. The dorm looks like something out of Harry
Potter; I keep expecting the portraits in the common room to walk away. I meet the Masters of the House, a married
couple. They seem very nice, comfortably left of center, no surprise
there. After all, they’re on faculty at
a prominent American university.
That would also explain why I don’t see a
single McCain or Barr sticker on any parent’s car. Nor are there any
non-Democrat T-shirts or paraphernalia in sight. I guess only certain kinds of diversity are
valued in contemporary academia. If Obama gets in, half his cabinet will be on
faculty here. Maybe as a parent I’ll
have an “in” with the administration.
Hope they don’t read too many of my columns.
The reverse of the
prevailing political ambience is not the only clue we’re not in
Despite the language
barrier, there’s a shared commonality:
Our babies are leaving home. Sure, we’ve spent
tremendous amounts of time, money and effort to bring them to this moment, but
that’s small consolation. Just because
we want this doesn’t mean we can bear it.
The school knows this very
well. They’ve hired scores of eager,
excessively young students to handle us, cheerily introducing themselves and volunteering to help carry things. They are “second-years”; my daughter will be
a “first-year”. When are the Quidditch
tryouts?
Once we unpack and haul
away the boxes, the room looks presentable.
My daughter and I go out for a long lunch, then
stop at the bookstore to buy some university propaganda cleverly disguised as
clothing. I pick a sweatshirt to add to
my collection. No need for a window
sticker, I put
that on the car long ago. It’s
desperately important to me that complete strangers in traffic know why our
family drives such a cheap car.
The afternoon sun starts
to wane. Now comes the Last Mile, the dreaded coup de grace of
Orientation Day. After an alumni
representative, the Dean of Students, and the President of the University have
all had their say, I must walk in the Farewell Procession.
Led by a corps of
bagpipers, a long column of parents and first-years leaves the chapel. Our destination is Hull Gate, which only the
first-years will walk through. My trip
with my daughter will take about eighteen minutes. One for each year of our
lives together.
Step.
I become a father for the second time.
I drive home in the
Step.
First day of pre-school.
Step. She becomes a Bat Mitzvah. I see glimpses of the woman she will become.
Step. First boyfriend. She tells me to relax. The granite arch of the gate looms in the
distance.
Step.
High school graduation. The gate is yards away now.
Step. My mother dies. My daughter reads one of Mom’s poems at the
service. Mom was a successful writer,
who will never read her grandchild’s first novel. They remind me so much of each other.
Stop. The Gate looms in front of
me, I can go no farther. Beyond lies a
cheering throng of second-years, welcoming the newcomers to their respective
Houses. One holds a sign that says
“Welcome home!” And of course that’s
right. My daughter must go and start her
new life with new friends in a new home.
We hug for too short a
time. I say something private and
hopefully meaningful. Then I turn and
walk away.