I just sent my first born to college. 

It went surprisingly well. 

That may be because I am as good at denial as she is. 

In the weeks leading up to go-time, there were details to attend to, failed fill-ins re her often late-night plans to yell about, dorm accoutrements to pack.  The day before and day of move-in, it was all hands on deck, shuttling things downstairs, out the door, and onto the roof of the car. 

Even on campus, it was fine, fun even.  Setting up a fresh new space.  Her younger sisters scouring the bookstore for swag. 

Then it was time to say goodbye. 

Her face shifted as rapidly as her eyes did when I suggested she walk us out.  Her eyes stayed steady on us as we crossed the pedestrian bridge, each of us turning and waving every few steps.  But as we walked parallel to the drainage ditch between us, her eyes went to her phone as I looked one last time. 

I knew she was trying to focus on something other than the tears in her eyes.  I knew she was trying to ‘act normal’ as she moved past the others buzzing around the dorm entrance.  I didn’t bother trying to act normal as I trailed along behind the remains of my troop.  I stubbornly willed my next two oldest to stop peeking backward glances to gauge mom’s reaction.  I angrily cursed the still-smiling parents who stole a glance as they moved past us in the opposite direction. 

The ride home was empty.  All of us spent.  In every sense.  The youngest’s feelings coming out as rage when she couldn’t hold the box of cheesy marine-life I’d brought for fortification. 

That first week, her father and I endured many unreturned texts.  We had dire questions about logistics and deadlines.  She had a ‘tude when I called her on it during a video chat.  But at the end of the week, she admitted that maybe she didn’t want to talk because it would remind her how much she missed us. 

I had wondered if that was the case.  I wasn’t trying to make myself feel better; I was actually able to apply some psychology to this very personal experience.  Because I’d already applied anger. 

How can she just ignore our texts?  She’s talked to her sisters, why can’t she respond to us?  We need to know she’s submitted that very important thing.

When we finally came to some sort of consensus at the end of that week, I balanced my managerial texts with silly mom ones.  And she called me for a question about laundry settings, but continued to talk well after she’d received her answer. 

While the overwrought laundry fairy in me was incredulous at her query, the part of me that missed her terribly was tweaked.  She still needed me.  She needed to talk out the goings-on of her new weird days and perhaps get a little encouragement.  But how did I support her without giving unwarranted advice?  How would I validate her struggles without making her dwell on them?  I certainly didn’t want to dismiss them. 

We talked and laughed and I felt ever more acutely the shift into a new sort of relationship.  One I’d had glimpses of, interactions with, but felt more solidly on this side of it with her on the other end of a line stretched farther than it ever had yet. 

And it scared me to hear my mother in my voice, in my responses.  The gentle way she listened to my adult woes, the unrequited caregiving brimming in her intonation, the help she wanted to give but knew wasn’t her path to tread. 

My heart ached at the way I’d inadvertently pushed her away because I now knew it was my turn.  In the long chain of mother and daughter stretching backward, that phone call that started with a question about colors and whites added a link going forward.  And even though I knew it was time, I didn’t want it forged.  Somewhere between denial, anger, and acquiescence, it had happened without my realizing.