Leaving Oz

Farewell to My College-Bound Daughter

She's gone.  I waved goodbye from behind a glass window after she cleared security, pulled her hiking boots back over her "Nightmare before Christmas" socks, and hoisted her carry-on bag onto her shoulder. Then she strolled off to Gate 25 and her future.  It was 6:15am.  My tissues were too soggy to be useful, but the diner where we'd shared breakfast had napkins to spare.  I got home in a fog, fed the cats, put in earplugs against the garbage trucks prowling the neighborhood, and went back to sleep.

Yesterday, she withdrew into herself.  She's an introvert, and gains strength from her alone time, so I wasn't alarmed.  She spent alone time in all her favorite places--our roof, our climbing tree, my room. It seemed that she was steeping herself in these special places one last time.

Free the Captive?

Mom, I HATE this camp.  I want to quit!” fumed my 13-year-old son Erik when I picked him up after his first day of Computer Music camp.   

I signed him up for this camp because Erik is addicted to computers and video games and is used to being bathed in computer-screen radiation.  He also hates being exposed to the elements and doing anything that requires unnecessary physical exertion.  And because of the computers, I figured it would be indoors and air-conditioned – his preferred habitat.  He’s also talented at music, so it seemed like a good idea to give him a chance to try putting computers and music together.  But it obviously wasn't working out for him.

The next morning, I spoke with the instructor to see if he would be willing to spend a little more time with Erik since he was a beginner.  The instructor assured me that he would and then divulged that the first day they had encountered numerous computer problems which made the day more chaotic than it should have been.  I left feeling hopeful that the second day would go better.

But it didn’t.  If anything, it got worse.  My husband and I now faced a parenting dilemma:  Do we let Erik quit, or force him to continue to go, subjecting him to several hours a day of torture for the rest of the week? 

Car Keys and Growing Up

I knew something was different as soon as I walked into the house. My normally feisty 18-year-old daughter, Sequoia, looked up at me through her long dark lashes and said solemnly, “You were right. I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” My mind raced through our recent conversations and settled on one in my car the previous night.

"The keys!"