Mom on the Run
I have moved the postcard probably 100 times. It normally lies on the kitchen table, but because we’ve had company over recently – high school graduation brings out friends and family – it’s been moved around to make room for visitors and food. I’ve brought it back to the kitchen table, though, front and center, because it’s important, and has a deadline, and I didn’t want to find it too late.
Now, finally, graduation has come and gone, and it’s time to focus on college. I have memorized my son’s move-in date: August 23. That seems far in the future, but I know how quickly the summer will go. As it’s my second child leaving for college, I also know that there are lots of things due to the school between now and then. I haven’t been paying much attention, I wanted to get through graduation first, but there’s no more avoiding it.
First up, this postcard. I know it well, from all that moving around: “Limited Edition Class of 2017 Gear. Available for a very limited time. For students, for families, for anyone who has school pride!”
“Available for a very limited time” got my attention, of course. And “school pride.” Yes! Of course my son wants Limited Edition Class of 2017 Gear! Of course I want to get it for him! So I’ve saved the postcard. Carefully.
The first item offered: “Class of 2017 t-shirt. Every year a custom t-shirt is designed especially for the entering class of new students. This t-shirt is only available through this offer, don’t miss out!” Oh, a class t-shirt is definitely a must-have. And only available through this offer! I’m on it!
Next up: “Class of 2017 baseball cap. Weathered-look cap with embroidered logo on the front and ‘Class of 2017’ on back.” My son wears baseball caps. Often. And this is a limited edition too. Yup, another must-have.
Then, “Class of 2017 laundry bag. Durable black nylon mesh bag with drawstring. Logo screenprinted in white.” Oh, no, thank you. School pride? On a bag of dirty clothes? Nah.
Finally, “Parent and family lunch ticket. Parents and family members are encouraged to join their student for lunch on the first day of orientation.” Well, that seems like a requirement, right? Lunch with my kid? The last meal, before leaving him at school and going home to – choke – an empty nest?
Really, my decisions were made the first time I saw this postcard. There’s only one question: Do I need three lunch tickets, or four? Will my college-senior daughter be joining us at drop-off day? And that little question has stopped me from placing this order, and finally sending this postcard to its final recycling bin resting place.
So. Today. We’re all together, eating lunch, all four of us, holy cow, and for whatever reason I remember the postcard, and, “Oh!” I look at my daughter: “When are you going back to school?” “I don’t know.” “OK, when do classes start?” I get a shrug in response. “Right around September 1, right?” She shrugs again, this time with a little nod. “Are you going to come with us to drop your brother off at school? On August 23rd?”
Finally, an answer she knows. “Yes,” and she nods. Firmly. One nod. That was my guess; I didn’t think she would miss the big day. “OK, then, I’ll get four tickets to the lunch.”
“Wait,” she says, putting her hand up for emphasis. “The lunch by the college? On move-in day?” “Yeah,” I reply casually. “We can buy the tickets now.”
“No,” she says, emphatically. “He’s going to be eating at that cafeteria every day for the rest of the year. We’ll go somewhere nice for lunch that day. Off campus.” And she looks meaningfully across the table at her brother.
“Just looking out for you, bro,” she tells him.
“Thanks,” he says, nodding.
“Oh,” I say, surprised and deflated. And being wrong on the orientation lunch makes me wonder about the t-shirt, and the baseball cap, and … nah. I’m still pretty sure about the laundry bag.
