To my son, the week before he leaves for college

Dear Boy,

I’ve seen it all. The eye rolls, the heavy sighs, the lip bit in frustration. It’s been a challenging summer, with you ready to be an adult and face the world and me wanting to bolt you to your bedroom floor. It’s not you, it’s me. You’ll learn one day when you have kids that a big part of parenting is maintaining the illusion of control. If we do everything right and follow all the rules, nothing bad will happen. The hilarious part of that is that you can do everything right or everything wrong and life is still pretty much a crapshoot. Nonetheless, this summer has been about control. Not necessarily about me controlling you, but me trying to control the fact that you’re not my baby anymore. Sure, you’ll still need me. But it will be different.

I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. I spent nine months wondering what you would look, sound and smell like. I sang you all of my favorites from Les Miserables for nine months. I went to bed every night the two weeks you were late humming “One Day More” under my breath. With a final push, you came out of me, not with a cry, but with a look of complete amusement, as if you were saying, “So, what’s THIS all about?” Your cheeks were so big, they nearly touched the ground, and I wanted to hold you forever.

It’s fitting that you looked amused when you were born. Your entire childhood, and even now, you bring laughter wherever you go. Your favorite joke when you were 3 was “Knock knock,” “Who’s there?” “Soup.” “Soup who?” “Superman!!!!” You would laugh heartily and with gusto every single time, even when the joke had been told so many times all it could elicit in response were aggravated groans. Here’s a secret: When you left the room, we laughed – sometimes until we cried.

It was a cold December morning when we took you to the emergency room with what we thought was the stomach flu – at worst, appendicitis. I remember the ambulance ride to Rochester with you. Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” was playing on the radio. I looked out the small, rectangle-shaped windows in the back of the rig and saw snow flurries and told you to look. You were on all sorts of pain medication, so even lifting your head was difficult, but you smiled. Always smiling.

Later, when they told us you had cancer, Dad held your hands and told you how very much you were loved. That was the one time I couldn’t handle it. I left the room because I couldn’t let you see how very scared I was, and I knew you needed to be strong. You were. You fought everything brought to you that year like a champ. You did it with your infectious humor and optimistic attitude. If you knew how dire your situation was sometimes, you never let on. And you told the “Superman” joke to every last person on the hospital staff.

You finished treatment, threw yourself into life, and never looked back. Weeks , months and years flew by. You had all of your “firsts” – including heartbreak and failure. We tried to offer good-natured advice and shepherd you through all of it. Don’t think we didn’t know it was you who buttoned the experiences on like armor and headed back out to face life again.

I have made more mistakes with you than I care to count. Sometimes I wasn’t thinking, sometimes I was thinking too hard. Some of my biggest screw-ups helped me learn the most. I think you know that. You have never thrown my mistakes back in my face and you have always granted me forgiveness. Thank you for that.

Your faith has inspired me. You understand you are called to a deeper purpose in your life, and I have learned that part of my purpose was to have and raise you. Through you, God has taught me capacity for love, forgiveness, compassion, and generosity. I thank Him every day for entrusting you to me.

And now, you’re going to be on your own for the first time. You will stumble and fall. We will be watching and waiting. Sometimes you will want our help and more often you won’t. But we will stand ready to offer it.

You will have more joyous moments than you can ever imagine. We will celebrate every moment as we watch you, and you need to always remember that though we know you’re not perfect, we love you more than words can say.

I worry I haven’t taught you things. I haven’t shown you how to stretch $10 at the grocery store or how to get a greasy stain out of a dress shirt. I haven’t forced you to learn how things work so you know how to fix them. I haven’t held you accountable to keeping your room clean or to respect your possessions. I haven’t shown you how to make fabulous spaghetti sauce or how to cut a chicken into pieces.

You’ll figure it out. I know you will. Because I’m proud of what we and others have taught you: Perseverance, fortitude, forgiveness, patience, and compassion. These are the virtues that will get you through.

Live your joy. I am proud of you and I love you.

Go get ‘em.