He’s Leaving Home…And Mom’s Going Nuts

We’re a family of three, not four this week (or four, not five, if you count the dog). Newt, our 10-year-old, is away for two nights with his classmates at a wilderness camp. At Lake Tahoe. In the snow.

Fortunately he’s not snow camping (because that’s only for crazy people). They’re in cabins with heat and hot water. But it’s still 28-flippin’ degrees up there at night. All I know is that this morning, you wouldn’t have seen me with a smile on my face, walking the 100 yards to the breakfast hall before I’d had coffee.

This is a big deal for him. And us. The first time he spent the night at a friend’s house was last Friday, in preparation for this trip. He’s a stay-at-home kid, and we’re a do-stuff-together family, so having one of us gone is. . . weird. It’s like taking a piece off a mobile — everything may still hang out and spin, but it’s all a little off-kilter.

We had a list of items to pack and were told to make sure we remembered everything. And that it was better to overpack than to under pack. But we should also pack light (I just adore humans). By the time I was done with Newt, he had one duffle bag and a sleeping bag. Perfect — they said he should be able to carry everything. Of course the problem was, when he went to pick up the bag that morning, he could only walk for about five feet before it made him trip all over himself.

So despite all my planning, as usual, we were scrambling around last minute. My husband dug out one of our old traveling backpacks from the days when we didn’t have kids and actually went on cool trips around the world. A minute later, I’d transferred everything into it and zipped it up. The kids were blown away by how fast I could pack a bag, which just goes to show that all of those nightmares about being late and packing for a trip weren’t a complete waste.

By the time we were done, the boy was fitted with a backpack that was almost as tall and heavy as he was. We considered attaching the sleeping bag but then realized he needed to carry it in the front for counterweight.

As we pulled up to the school, his little sister, Elfie, said, “Well, I’ll miss you.” Newt started to tear up a little. He and I are so much alike. The excitement of the morning had distracted everyone from the fact that he was leaving. We’d even managed to forget about it the night before — Newt wasn’t nervous and had no trouble sleeping. I kept thinking back to my camp days and how stressed out I’d been. He was acting like this was no big deal.

We walked Newt into school and dropped of his stuff. He hugged us, turned, and ran inside. I don’t know if he was worried about being late or upset about leaving (I’m going with the late thing).

Really, truly, I didn’t think I’d cry that much. A little, sure. But this? I suppose you could call this a domino cry. You start for one reason and then you just keep coming up with bigger and better excuses to keep going…

So as we drove home that day, I went through this lovely, emotional rundown:

• I didn’t pack him the right stuff.
• That bag’s way too heavy.
• He’s never going to be able to repack that thing.
• I haven’t taught him to keep his shit together well enough. He’s going to lose everything.
• I had everything so well organized — it was just like my mother.
• I miss my mother.
• I can’t believe my mother isn’t here to see Newt growing up.
• He’s growing up so fast.
• He’s growing up too fast.
• This is all going by in an instant.
• Everything changes so fast.
• Before we know it, he’ll be gone.
• He could be gone tomorrow. Or today.
• Just like Logan.
• I hope the road to the lake isn’t icy.
• I hope the people who hired the bus driver actually did a background check.
• I hope the bus driver isn’t a closet alcoholic.
• I hope the counselors know what they’re doing.
• And aren’t pedophiles.
• I didn’t teach him enough about creepy people.
• I didn’t teach him enough about other creepy kids.
• He’s never been around a bunch of people for this much time without being able to go off and be by himself — ever.
• I hope he doesn’t lose his shit.
• I hope nobody teases him.
• I hope nobody makes him cry.
• Please, please, please — I hope he has fun.

When Elfie woke up this morning, the first thing she said was, “I wonder how Newt is?”

“I hope he’s having a good time,” I said.

“I bet he’s doing great.”

Funny thing about my kids — they’ve learned pretty quickly how to read me. And how to make me feel better. It’s the blessing and curse of having a crazy, depressed, chronically ill mother. You learn to read people. You learn to feel their pain. You learn to comfort.

And I can only hope that those skills are serving my son well now that he’s out in “the real world.” I can stuff everything I can think of into his backpack. But he’s the one who’s going to have to open it up and use it.