Unpacking my emotions about college dropoff

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I have never been a very sentimental person. I think it’s a by-product of being an Army brat. As a kid who had to move every few years, I didn’t have the bandwidth for nostalgia or mawkishness. Time marched on, and so did the Neales, from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to Fort Knox, Kentucky. From Fort Lewis, Washington, to Queens, New York.

By the end of 12th grade, I had attended eight different schools, including three high schools in two years. I think that’s why my own children’s educational milestones — first day of kindergarten, last day of middle school, etc. — have never been overwrought occasions for me. The same goes for college drop-off. (I know I’m in the minority here.)

When my husband and I dropped off our oldest at college, we helped him set up his room for a few hours, then went to a bar without him and toasted each other. “One down, two to go,” I said as we clinked beer glasses.

When the second left home, we put her on a train to New York just three days after high school graduation. “You can take an Uber to your dorm today since you have so many bags,” I told her. “But after that, it’s the subway for you.”

Within months of each kid leaving, I had turned their bedroom into a guest room or office.

I’ve always been perplexed by — and, if we’re being honest, rather judgmental of — the parents who wring their hands as drop-off day approaches and create social media posts about having left their heart in Philadelphia, Nashville, Chicago or wherever. “Come on,” I moan, every time I open Instagram. Wasn’t this the plan all along? Isn’t this what you’ve been saving for all these years? Would you rather he live in your basement forever?

But as I’ve watched my youngest child, Gilbert, pack for college (he leaves tomorrow!), I’ve stopped looking at this transition from my own perspective and started seeing it through his eyes. We’ve lived in the same state, the same neighborhood and the same house for 24 years. Our Victorian rowhouse is the only place my kids have ever called home.

So as my son prepares to leave me, he’s also preparing to leave a lot of other folks who have watched him grow up and supported him along the way.

There are our elderly Evangelical neighbors who dropped off a pocket-sized New Testament with a $100 bill tucked inside. There’s the owner of the vinyl record store down the block who, when he didn't have any Drive-By Truckers posters in stock for Gilbert to take to college, pulled a signed poster off the wall and handed it to him, free of charge. There are the high school coaches Gilbert visited one last time as they held preseason practice this week. And there’s the pediatrician who agreed to rush him a copy of his immunization records when he finally called to request those a few days ago.

All those kind gestures reminded me of something Diana Renn, who wrote a fabulous essay this week about anticipating her own son’s college dropoff, told me in a phone conversation: “I want him to feel taken care of, even as he learns to take care of himself.”

I don’t know how this last college dropoff will go, but I know my son feels taken care of — and not just by me. All the local love he has received over the last few weeks reminded me of the day we drove our oldest kid, Ned, to college, seven years ago.

We left early in the morning and stopped for to-go drinks at a coffee shop two blocks from our house, where we ran into our dear friend, Andy. “You’re leaving for college? Now?” he asked when he saw us. Flustered by the good fortune of running into each other at this auspicious moment, he offered my son snacks for the road and bought us more bottled drinks and baked goods than we could possibly consume on our 8-hour drive. Then he walked us outside and stood on the corner, telling anyone who would listen. “Ned’s leaving for college. He’s going right now!” A few people humored Andy by saying “Good luck” or simply nodding and smiling. We got into the car, buckled up and started to drive away. But Andy didn’t go back inside. He stood on the corner, tearing up and waving and shouting good wishes we could no longer hear.

And, much to my surprise, I teared up a little too. I wasn’t sad about saying goodbye to my kid. I was simply and suddenly so aware of, and grateful for, everything he was leaving behind.

When I spoke with Diana a few days after she dropped off her son, I asked what surprised her the most about college drop-off day. “I realized I didn’t have to witness the moment he walked into his dorm room,” she said. “I didn’t have to walk with him over the threshold. I saw how confidently he walked into this next chapter and I stayed in the unloading zone with our car.”

I’m excited for Diana’s son. I’m excited for my son. I’m excited for all the kids who are walking confidently into whatever the next chapter of their life is. I want to stand on the proverbial corner and give them all a big send-off, like my friend Andy did. I want to wave and yell. “We’re proud of you. We love you. Good luck.” And keep yelling until they’re out of sight.

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