When college send-off is a family affair

“I can’t do this!” My father gasped, as we searched in vain for the University of South Carolina administration building. It was a swampy 98 degrees in Columbia, and we were at freshman orientation — not for me, but for my 18-year-old son. My 81-year-old dad had invited himself after my husband bailed for work and home projects, and I’d happily agreed, forgetting somehow that there would be a lot of walking on a huge Southern campus in July.

Being 81 was no match for Dad’s take charge style. “We’ll fly into Charleston," he’d declared. “It’s cheaper and we can have lunch at Poogan’s Porch. I’ll rent the car — easy drive; I’ve done it.” Being 18 was no match for my son’s ability to question everything and agree with nothing. He countered with, “We’re flying into Charleston? Lunch at 11? And isn’t Poogan’s Porch a tourist trap?”

“Stop complaining! You’re lucky to have a grandpa who’s interested in your life!” I snapped.

When you have been a middle child all your life, you understand how to straddle extremes. Growing up between a younger sister and older brother, I was often more independent, more adventurous and more in trouble. We middle kids are survivors. (We’re the ones you want on a lifeboat, though maybe not the ones you want decorating your living room.) This, however, was a new kind of middle.

As it goes with best laid plans, the restaurant was booked. The drive was not easy. There was construction, endless traffic and it took over two hours. I had to pee. While my son slept in the back seat, unfazed, my father swore at traffic. “It was never like this when we lived here,” he grumbled, and I felt a bitter pang of recognition. I stared longingly at the Bojangles and Chick-fil-A’s streaming by the flat, southern landscape as the temperature climbed. I was already at the age where everything seemed better when I was younger, too — the price of milk, music, traffic. I could only imagine what my perspective would be at 81.

While my son may have silently calculated the social cost of having both his mother and grandfather at orientation, within hours of arriving he had a gaggle of new friends. His extraction from life as my child had begun. By day two, my father and I were promptly rejected from his lunch table as we approached with our trays of limp pizza and salad. As Dad and I huddled near other lonely, sweating parents, I secretly worried someone might mistake me for his wife.

While “touring” campus (i.e. wandering, lost) as my son napped, I feared Dad would overheat and collapse before the official orientation had even started, and that was a phone call I did not want to make to my mother. “Dad, give me your phone,” I pleaded, thinking I could find our way using the map function, but, allergic to all things Apple, expensive, or convenient, Dad had an android. I may as well have been holding an abacus. After he boomed, “I know how to use my phone!” — and I yelled, “Well I don’t!” — we asked a nice Southern pedestrian for directions. We made our way back to the hotel, and, inevitably, the bar.

“Where were you guys?” my son asked. “Touring campus,” we replied in unison, both of us unwilling to admit to being flummoxed by technology.

The next morning, Dad and I headed to the parents’ block while my son attended student sessions. We listened attentively to “Letting Go: What You Need to Know,” “Tackling Move-in Day” and a terrifying lecture that may as well have been titled, “How the Hell Are You Going to Pay for This?” We secretly mocked parents who asked, “Are there vacuum cleaners in the dorms?” and “Will they get bathroom priority if they have an early class?” I couldn’t wait for my son to figure out the answers to these questions all by himself.

At lunch when we asked my son about his new friends — What were they like? Where were they from? — he replied, “Everyone is asking me why we flew into Charleston.” My dad and I posed for photos in front of a “Go Gamecocks!” banner with signs that said “Proud Parent” and “Empty Nester.” “You’re not an empty nester; you still have a kid at home,” my son said, refusing to participate in photos. At the student center with his 23 new friends, he informed us which sessions he didn’t need to attend. I wondered what this school could possibly teach him that he didn’t already know.

While my son may have silently calculated the social cost of having both his mother and grandfather at orientation, within hours of arriving he had a gaggle of new friends.

When we were directed to the business school, a “short half mile walk” away, I could hardly be blamed for banning him from the golf cart I had negotiated for Dad, telling the dewy co-ed that I had an elderly grandparent who needed assistance.

“Yes, ma’am!” she said brightly, returning in minutes with a deluxe four-seater equipped with a fan. “Ya’ll jump right in.” I decided I loved the South. We waved happily as we sped by my son huffing down the sweltering sidewalk.

My dad scribbled notes at all our sessions that day and got a free T shirt and mug. He took pictures of the QR codes to order books, select a move-in time and download the university parking pass.

But the android phone was not done with us. Inside the brand-new, glass-and-velvet business school auditorium, Dad grabbed seats up front while I dashed to the restroom. When I returned, the unmistakable voice of Anderson Cooper was echoing from our row. On someone’s phone. Someone who didn’t realize his phone was blaring CNN.

I hissed, “Dad, your phone’s on. “ Heads were swiveling in our direction.

“It’s off,” he insisted.

“Nope. CNN is broadcasting from your pocket.”

“That’s not me, it’s that guy!” he said, pointing vaguely at another dad.

“Please. Turn it off.”

“I did!”

“Dad, it’s your phone, I promise. Just turn it down. Please.”

Now the dean was taking the lectern, his eyes searching the auditorium for Anderson Cooper. I slunk lower in my seat.

“Oh my God, give me the phone.” My son, to the rescue. Humbled, we obeyed.

Later, Dad drove us back to last night’s restaurant to retrieve my forgotten purse, and then to the bookstore where I left my credit card. My son rolled his eyes, and I let him enjoy his moment of 18-year-old omniscience.

There were things about which Dad had been right: having a rental car, taking notes and introducing myself to other parents. There were things about which my son was right — the Charleston restaurant with the incredible crab bisque, how to turn off an Android phone.

I’m still trying to remember what I was right about. Bringing both of them? Savoring my place in the middle? The older I get, at least some things never change. There’s no place I’d rather be.