There’s an odd book sitting on our side table. It’s not like the other books. The biography of Hamilton. The science fiction tomes. The light and breezy books on financial planning. So comical and perfect for a day at the beach.
This one has a whole different feel to it. Its own vibe or mood. Truthfully, it seems like it’s from some kind of parallel universe. Somewhere alien and un-relateable, as if written in an entirely different language. Kind of dark and foreboding.
It has a word in it that causes heart palpitations and intestinal backflips every time I read it: College.
Which is a little funny considering the fact that I work and teach at a college. Rather love the place. The idea behind it and all that it means. A place of learning. Of higher thinking. Of pushing your level of knowledge and critical thinking as you set a career path and figure out who you are. Oh, and beer pong! Plus, gluing your sheet to the ceiling of your dorm room for no better reason than: a) you have a sheet, b) there is a ceiling, and c) … beer pong!
College is so many things. A chance to meet new people, and often lifelong friends – I met my wife in college. Where you recognize that you can make a difference in the world. And that taking statistics sucks! Because you’re going to come within the width of sliced deli ham from failing it. But it can be one of the greatest experience of your life. Except for the time you got written up after beer pong. But who cares? It’s COLLEGE!!!
Only, now, sitting on the side table, the word has a new connotation for me. It has come to mean: leaving.
The book has a name like: “College: The biggest financial decision you’ll ever make” or “College: How we’re going to steal your daughter, grow her up and she’ll never be your little girl again.”
I mean, maybe I’m reading it wrong, but that’s kind of what it says to me. And I’m not diggin’ that.
The book was supposed to be a primer. A way to tip-toe into the subject. My daughter just finished her freshman year of high school and …
Hold on one second. Let me just say that again properly:
MY DAUGTER JUST FINISHED HER #@&%!$ FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL!!!! OMG!!!
Whew, I needed that. To recognize it. To get it out there and come to terms with it.
Because, yeah … that just happened. In the blink of an eye. For so long, high school was a tiny blip on the distant radar. And now suddenly, one-fourth of it is in the record books. We’re staring down the barrel of sophomore year and I have a book on the side table titled, “College: We’re coming for her.”
I asked for the book! I told my wife if she was at the library and saw any books about college – because maybe we should start, you know, kind of loosely thinking about it – to grab it so we can put it on the side table and have a nervous breakdown every time we walk by.
That sounds fun!
I don’t have the strength to read it. Not now. I would rather give myself a do-it-yourself lobotomy, which suddenly sounds like a much more appropriate book: “How to survive sending your daughter to college through a home lobotomy kit.”
I’m not one of those parents pushing hard to speed things up. To start thinking about next steps, or careers, or speeding through high school to get on with life. I would much rather slow things down. Take in the scenery. Get stuck in the here, right now.
But it suddenly doesn’t seem so far away. And here I am on Father’s Day – in the same week that my daughter finished up her freshman year – coming to terms with what it means to be this new, different kind of dad. One who needs to strap in for a new kind of ride that includes an ejection seat set to go off in three years.
Three measly, short years!
I looked back and a year ago when my daughter finished up 8th grade, I wrote about the coming milestone of high school: “So much of this feels like the final stage. The part of parenthood that you knew was on the horizon, but never spent any time thinking about it because it was too far away.”
A year later, “too far away” seems precariously close. And I’m NOT OK with that. (Translation: heart palpitations and intestinal backflips.)
So, on Father’s Day, I’m celebrating by covering up that crummy book. Might even drop it in the book return slot at the library. That seems fitting for a day that is about celebrating what it means to be a father, not what it means to prime the ejection seat. So, I’m going to spend this day thinking about the here and now, not college statistics and beer pong. (Or maybe what I need IS a little beer pong. That should be the book on coming to terms with a daughter going to college.)