Taking a child to college

It's that season again, when Baby Boomer newspaper and magazine columnists with college-age children write stories about the agony/relief of dropping their kids off at college for the first time. I've been reading several of them and sending them to Drew, who hasn't responded. Perhaps that's because he figures we'll have enough trouble getting Rachel through adolescence without worrying about how sad we'll be when she's gone for good.

The stories must have affected me more than I thought. I put Rachel to bed tonight after a fabulous Shabbat on the Plaza (the last one for the season; the weather was perfect, there weren't a lot of people there and Rachel was absolutely the most well-behaved fun companion so I actually got something from the service this time), and I was helping her get into her pajama bottoms. She always wants to do it herself but invariably puts a foot in the wrong leg, or tries to put two feet in the same leg, or misses the leg entirely...you get the idea.

Anyway, as I helped her into her pajamas (pajamees, she calls them), all of a sudden I realized that there will come a time when she won't need my help getting dressed anymore, that what she'll need help with are things I won't be able to provide any assistance or insight with. And I started weeping and told her that someday she won't need Mommy's help and that she'll go away to college, and that I have always thought of what that day would feel like and, please, Rachel, don't grow up too fast. Promise me.

"No go 'way!" she protested.

I realized she probably thought I was telling her I would go away, and I quickly corrected that: "No, Rachel, YOU'LL go away to COLLEGE." And then I collected myself and stopped weeping because, really, we have 16 more years to get upset about this. Why start now?