It had been six weeks, four days, three hours and thirty-odd minutes since I had last hugged my second born.
I clung to the memory of that rather fleeting moment in the courtyard just outside her Boston dorm, knowing it would be the longest I had ever gone without being able to hug her at will. Excuses for delaying my departure had run out; her father and brother had said their goodbyes and left hours before. Now, she had a roommate to befriend, people to meet, places to explore. I had a three-plus hour drive back home to my son and husband, with whom I would navigate a new reality of two girls in college.
It was nearly 45 minutes into the ride before I processed the idea that I had left my baby girl in Boston. Alone.
I sobbed.
Our oldest started college two years prior, and adjusting to her absence was not easy. Familiar experiences and activities were tinged with the bittersweet realization that life was moving on; that everything was somehow different. The experience did not fully prepare us to face a second round. In fact, even the second time, it felt new and slightly scary.
Our second adjusted easily, liked her roommate, was academically challenged and appeared to quickly find a balance between social life and study time. She seemed happy in a way that we had hoped.
About a week into her college experience, she broached the idea of joining a sorority. It was not something she expected to do, but she thought it would provide the connectedness she craved at a big university. Soon, rushing and bonding with her new sorority sisters took up her weekends. We kept in touch by text and an occasional phone call.
“I’m sorry I’m bad at texting,” she wrote when she hadn’t answered my text for the better part of a day.
“No worries. I just need to check in every day to know you’re OK, and I’d like to hear your voice at least once a week,” I replied, and she happily complied.
Seventeen days into the start of her college life, I began to break. “Maybe I should go down and take her to lunch,” I suggested to my husband. It was a doable day trip, or a good reason for an overnight visit to my mom, who lives just outside the city.
My oldest caught wind of my plan and shut me down. “Mom, you have to let her adjust. She’s fine. You’ll be fine.” She reminded me of how often we had heard “them” say it’s best to give your child time to acclimate to their new surroundings. A visit too early might trigger homesickness that could be hard to overcome.
I only partly agreed. My child was different; she was more than ready for life beyond high school and therefore would adjust more quickly than the average freshman. After all, she was adventurous, an explorer. And anyway, why was it up to “them” to decide how long I should wait to visit?
I relented, and I waited.
It was quieter at home, which was unexpected given that the most talkative child was still in our house. Maybe it was simply that life became less noisy with one fewer child coming and going, eating and contributing to the laundry pile. There was just one coat and backpack dropped at the kitchen table; only one child to hug at will.
We reluctantly adapted.
The wait to parents’ weekend seemed interminable, including the drive to Boston that was hampered by rain and traffic. And then, at last, she was in my view. And in my arms.
I do not know how fathers feel about the physical connection of a hug. Nor do I know that all mothers feel as I do. I don’t think we crave this physical contact simply because we carry these amazing beings in our bellies for some part or all of nine months. There are plenty of non-biological parents/adults who also feel grounded when they hug a foster/adopted/other child to whom they are connected by blood or simply by love.
And yet, hugs are vital to the human experience. Like oxygen, they are necessary to breathe, essential to survive.
Six weeks, four days, three hours and thirty-odd minutes. In this moment, I am grateful to breathe; at last, I am fine.
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