Duty Calls

Today is one of those days when it is a little inconvenient to have a blog to feed.  I woke up at 6am to pack my car, and then drove my daughter—with additional company from my son—to college.   The duty roster for the day included driving 300 miles as well as loading and unloading the large Volvo we keep around just for such occasions.  Once we emptied the car, we then unloaded a storage locker that we rented up the street from her campus containing all her architecture paraphernalia and winter clothes.  I give my son and daughter a lot of credit for flexing their muscles today, allowing me to play roles more appropriate for my age and title:  cleaning, folding, hanging, and arranging.

In my college days, it seemed a lot simpler.  I had an old family trunk full of clothes, a few boxes of books, a Smith-Corona “Coronamatic” (the one with the correcting cartridges), and multiple milk crates of records.  I could move in or out in a matter of an hour or two.  Today’s college kids have so much more to accomplish to ready themselves for the start of classes.  In my daughter’s case, for example, she has to obliterate all anti-virus software on her laptop and then download the exclusive university anti-virus tools before getting access to the university’s network.  In addition, televisions apparently are now mandatory equipment in college dorms.  The rooms come cable-ready.  It is not unusual to see kids arriving at the dorm with huge (>42”) televisions in tow.   My daughter requested a small screen—only 26”—so that she could steal time for her guilty pleasure, Project Runway.   So now, in addition to hanging blue jeans, putting away socks, and making the bed, a dorm set-up requires troubleshooting the connections—both hardwired and wireless—of many pieces of technology.

Even the nicest of dorms still has a prison esthetic.  The creaky wire springs and flat mattress issued to my daughter show no evidence of having evolved since my college days.  Despite the market prominence of memory foam and sleep number beds, dorm beds seem designed specifically to inhibit, rather than encourage, sleep.   Same goes for the bathrooms, which, even when scrubbed with bleach to a level of technical cleanliness, still betray remnants of drunken binges.  The university-issued furniture for her “athlete apartment” includes a fascinating array of stains across all the cushions and upholstery.  

My daughter is rather proud of her OCD.  She chooses to arrive a day early, armed with a battalion of disinfectant products and cleaning tools.  Before anything can be placed or unpacked, she scrubs and sprays and wipes and Swiffers every surface.   I confess to getting a bit of joy out of watching her attack the invisible germs before feathering her nest.  It is reassuring to see her embrace her college life and make it her own.  The pride she takes lets me know she will be okay when I leave. 

So why do I look at my baby—who is nearly twenty—and still see the little girl with the long braid down her back?  I think of how long it took for her to finally walk on her own.   And yet, this same girl felt so self-conscious when she couldn’t read well in kindergarten, she spent the entire summer before first grade reading every book she could get her hands on (and hasn’t stopped).   It was the same when we tried to teach her to ride a bike with training wheels.  As soon as we removed the redundant supports, she sped away.   It is so natural for me to want to help, making sure she doesn’t falter.  Instead, she proves time and time again that she is much tougher than any of us give her credit for.

Miss you, baby!