There is a strange phenomenon that occurs in the relationship we have with our kids after they go off to college. Without the everyday contact, a parent starts to see their young adults as special on a whole different level. When she thinks about them, she envisions a halo over their head. She seems to be in awe of them, and when they return home for a visit, the atmosphere lights up and even the dog celebrates.
Once they have spent some time at college, our child’s view of us changes as well. Their eyes glaze over when we enter their field of vision. Tears have been known to well up in their eyes and our kids have even been known to mutter, “Thank God you’re here!”
But we’ve learned firsthand that the wonder and awe our kids experience at the sight of us isn’t always related to love. Rather than see my husband and me as the grand beings we truly are, these studious subjects see good old Dad and Mom as humanized ATMs. Isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do? They see us as a grocery cart heaping with a bachelor’s bounty, as a catalyst to dining out, and someone to dole out a 20- spot like a Pez dispenser every time they leave the room.
Knowing all of this from past experience, I still miss my older boys, who are living at their campus homes far away from their loving mother.
Therefore, as I pulled into their driveway just last week, I was giddy with joy.
“Well, look who it is!” my Huey proclaimed as he came at me with open arms. Although I’m not a small woman, he then picked me up off of my feet, gave me a good shake and then plopped me down to the ground before giving my hair a tousle.
“Did you miss me, Ma?” he asked.
“Terribly,” I responded as I tried to twist my spine back into alignment.
“Good,” he said, “then we should take me shopping.”
Although the college years can keep a kid strapped for cash, thin in the wallet and malnourished from an all-Ramen noodle diet, it certainly doesn’t make them humble. I’ll give you that.
“Oh, no way!” Huey called out as he approached a rack of high-dollar clothing in the department store. “Look, Ma! This jacket’s $100 off!”
“Good heavens!” I proclaimed as I looked at the price tag. “That’s more than I paid for my wedding dress.”
“Would you look at this?! Oh! Look at that!” and the ever-loving, “Oh yeah! I really need one of those.”
“How does this look on me?” he asked as he modeled a shirt.
“That depends,” I replied. “How much is it?”
It wasn’t long before I felt like an exhausted personal shopper, a pack mule with a broken-down back, and a cash cow who had been milked of her last quart.
Although we took his car to the mall, I paid for the gas. The trip to the grocery store cut into our retirement funds, and dinner certainly wasn’t a walk in the park at picnic prices.
At the end of the day we lugged his wares into his campus home.
Judging by the expenditures of the day, he would have adequate clothes to get him by, sufficient toothpaste to keep his pearly whites sparkling, and enough Ramen noodles to get him through the semester or the end of the world. Whichever comes first.
When I went to leave, he gave me another big hug that involved my feet leaving the ground as he shook me like a Polaroid picture.
“Thanks for everything, Ma!” he said.
Then he kissed my cheek and dropped me to the ground.
When I looked up at him, a halo was suspended in midair over his head, and he had a radiance that glowed from behind him.
Could be he truly is that special. Or it could have been the fact that we purchased light bulbs to replace all of the burned out ones at his campus home.
Either way, I miss that boy already, and look forward to our next visit with great anticipation. I just need to sell some stuff so that we can afford it.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].