College Graduation Came Too Soon

The Boston Herald

I am writing this 23 hours before my son's college graduation. I am sitting in my office, surrounded by the usual clutter, wondering how it is possible that I am not close to being ready for an event for which I've had 22 years to prepare.

The entire house needs to be vacuumed. The bathrooms need  to  be cleaned. All the curtains should have been washed. The furniture should  have been polished . I haven't swept the front walk since last fall. I still have to buy a graduation present, soft drinks, beer, wine, napkins, cheese and crackers. I have to call my cousin and the caterer, get balloons, borrow a camera, put together a  photo collection, iron a tablecloth and my son's graduation gown. 

I am a fly against a window, banging up against all the things I haven't done. I've had this date highlighted on my calendar for a year. It isn't a surprise. So why am I not ready? Why do I feel so fragmented and ill-prepared?

I suppose because I am ill-prepared. Tomorrow, when my son graduates, I will be graduating too. But graduating to what? He will be officially grown. He will no longer need a full-time mother. Therefore, my job is done. But I don't know what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to do next.

Like the graduation itself, my son's adulthood is not a surprise. He has lived at school for nearly five years. He has come and gone at will. He does his own laundry, cooks his own meals. His graduating, like his growing, has been gradual. This day, this moment of adulthood, hasn't suddenly materialized like a rabbit from a magician's hat. I have watched it coming. I have seen  it.  I  have heard its sounds: the night light clicking off; the bedroom door closing; the child's voice deepening; the car driving away; the phone calls from school, from Florida, from San Diego, from Cancun; the car returning; the noisy nights; the  silent mornings.

My son's adulthood is the next step in the natural progression of things. In the map of life, he's still on the main road and so am I.

But it's a stretch of road neither of us has taken before. His is wide and open, free of textbooks and term papers, and he is thrilled. He's experiencing a new kind of freedom and is exhilarated by endless possibilities.

My road is open and free, too, free of "Mom, can you come here for a minute." "Mom, will you get me a Coke?" "Morn, can you not make so much noise in the morning." "Mom, I need you."

But I am not thrilled. This road, with its new twists and unfamiliar turns, frightens me.

I knew the old road. I knew how to mother a child. I knew how to protect him against childhood hurts. I knew what to say when he was sad, what words would make him laugh. I knew not to embarrass him by screaming too loud when he caught a fly ball, not to scold him in front of a friend, not to kiss him, not ever, in public.

I don't know how to mother an adult. I don't know this road at all. I haven't been on it before. Where does it lead? Where am I going? What is my role now? Am I supposed to lead, to walk beside, or to follow?

I haven't prepared for my son's graduation because I haven't prepared for what comes next. What does come next? I knew when he was born that he wouldn't stay an infant forever, that he would grow to be a child. But I thought his childhood would last forever. All those years in school - nursery school, kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school, college. It would take forever to finish all that.

Now forever is over. Tomorrow's the day. The date has been on my calendar for a year, but it was just the word "graduation" on a page, until now. Now it's real. Now it's time to vacuum the house and buy balloons and celebrate.

No wonder I have postponed doing all this. I am delaying the moment, dallying just a little longer, trying to hold on to my baby for one more day.