The Vaya Con Dios Decade
Everyone stay right there. No joke. For the first time in ten years, the end of August is rolling around and I am not moving anyone. Not moving anyone into a dorm or apartment or duplex, or out of one. I’m not packing a car or a van or a single box. Every August, since the early days of the first Obama administration, I have given money to Target like it was my job, and bought college supplies or dorm fittings or apartment accouterments. Or all of the above. And now: not a bit of it.
Oh, I know not everyone’s kids leave for college. Not everyone’s kids leave. But most of us with kids have these sending-them-forth moments, whether it’s on the school bus, or a two-wheeler, or sleep-away camp, or a date in a car or on a service trip or for a semester in South Africa. And in the bang of heartbeat and breathing and sweat is the silent refrain of vaya-con-Dios, however that looks for you: be safe, make good choices, trust. The hand-off, out of your sphere of influence, and to another. Bless all of them, but bless us as well: go with God, but God stay here, too.
For those in the throes of packing your kids for college or life’s next chapter, advice and stories abound. I once had a child go on a month-long service trip, only to find laundry there was done communally, and it was highly possible a man from the village was wearing a golf-shirt ‘belonging’ to my son, since you just helped yourself to what was drying on the public wash-line. Same son also brought back almost nothing from that trip except his camera, his wallet, and a machete, and a lifelong desire to go back. Everything else was donated while he was there. ‘Do more, have less’ became a mantra. I tried to remember that when a different son packed for South Africa for a semester, which I wrote about here. That’s still relevant learning.
I also learned, let your child navigate. I mean, there were some questionable campus rental houses (well, one for sure), and some cooking-of-meals in trade for WiFi passwords, and some memorable roommates along the way. They figured it out, and when it came time to go the distance, I felt confident handing them the keys. Really. That’s not a metaphor. One son moved across the country for graduate school, and his younger brother was his co-pilot for the move. After they moved in, I flew to California to help with driving our ancient (now empty) rustbucket van back thousands of miles. (N.B.: I showed up after the move, because that reflects years of learning on my part.) My younger son not only co-piloted his brother out to California, but would be sharing the ride with me on the way back — essentially spending a whole week driving. He joked it was one highway all the way back, “I-80 east, turn left at Rockford.” Except in the early morning Sacramento rush-hour traffic, we missed a sign and ended up in Placerville, CA. My son was so angry at himself, missing that turn. In a McDonald’s parking lot at the bottom of a steep hill, he asked me to please step out of the car “so I can have a moment with my map app”. And I stood outside the van while a stream of obscenities was directed to Google-mapping. After a few minutes, he unlocked the doors, got us coffee, and said, “we have to go up and over; we can’t lose time going back, and we can’t go around Lake Tahoe. We are taking this van” (he pointed to the mountains) “up that, and back down.” Vaya con Dios, let’s go.
More learning: bags of bags, friends. I wish this was my own learning, but it came straight from my daughter-in-law, back when she was my son’s girlfriend. Here’s the thing: unless you are going to a developing nation, you can probably buy what you need when you arrive. Okay fine, but she was going to a developing nation. For a year. FYI, line your luggage with personal care items if this is your itinerary. And bags-of-bags totally works. Shove multiple sizes of zipper plastic bags into a larger zipper plastic bag, and cram that in a pocket of a backpack or suitcase. You will not be sorry. Do not even get on me about the plastic-ness; you very well may need these bags and if you don’t use them, please don’t throw them in the ocean. Also, those fabric bags that fold up into themselves the size of a deck of cards: stockpile them, for laundry, groceries, markets, daytrips. Clip one to a caribiner and attach it to your backpack or your beltloop. Never be without a bag is really the learning outcome here.
Labeling is good. Not for people, of course, but most definitely for boxes of belongings being moved. We are to the point where I will only move labeled boxes that are taped closed. Unmarked boxes filled with random crap are never good. I moved my daughter 13 times while she was in college. I know: God Bless me right down to my socks. No joke: THIRTEEN TIMES. In every weather, at every hour of the day. Once, in a poorly-planned move at lease-end, she was crying and overwhelmed thinking she had til midnight to be out of her campus apartment, but then discovered she only had til 6pm that day. And it was New Year’s Eve. Alrighty then. Her brother arrived with me, to hear her lament, “how can I move all this?”, and (bless him) said, let’s just move the stuff in this cabinet. And then the next cabinet. And then this corner of the room, then the other corner, then the next room, and on like that. She was out by 6pm. I do not recommend that, btw, but no hearts or spirits or egos were broken so that goes in the win column.
In the hustle and hoopla, what you don’t think about is the ride back. The ‘after’. Remember that girlfriend of my son (now his wife) packing for a yearlong service commitment in Central America? Well, my son was honored to be asked by her parents to ride along to the airport to send her off. Much joking and ballyhooing along the way, plus they are not ones much for that “arrive to the airport early” suggestion, so there was some urgency to the driving and parking and unloading as well, and the farewell time flew by. And before he knew it, they were watching the back of her jacket disappear down the concourse on the other side of international security. He was unprepared for the emotions, and for sharing them with her parents, even though he knew they loved him and delighted in him. This was raw and maybe private, and more than anything he felt unmoored and shaky. They got through it, but note to self: create some space for the sad and fearful feelings that are alongside on the ride after drop-off. Those are very real. Not that the airport bar is the answer, but sometimes it’s worth a try. Or so I heard.
These are not the easiest days, hauling and lifting and toting and ferrying and transporting. I try to remember that when we moved from our first apartment into our first house, with a one-year-old in tow, all his toys fit in a basket that sat on a bookshelf. From that, we got to a fully-loaded van, turning right at Rockford and heading straight west out I-80 til it ends, moving him to the Pacific coast, where he still is. I’ve learned a lot along the way, like never pack your passport in a box of belongings. Bags and labels and goodbyes, yes, but also coffee and ice cream and ordering from the top shelf at the bar have their place, too. Moving my son to Colorado for law school one August, we had two cars (his that he was keeping with him, and mine, loaded with all his business), and we’d both pull into a gas station in Iowa or Nebraska, and he’d shout over to me two pumps away, “Hey lady! Would you pay for my gas?”. Because if we didn’t laugh, we might cry.
So, yes, I see you on the turnpike and at the rest-stops, in a rental truck or a vehicle stuffed to the ceiling and mattresses on the roof and bike racks on the rear hatch. I see you trying to back that rental trailer into a parking space outside a dorm without sideswiping another minivan attached to a rental trailer. I see you at gas stations refilling travel mugs and coolers with ice, in McDonald’s parking lots having moments with maps and apps, pulling yourself up over that mountain and down the other side. To you in the midst of it, I say, ‘vaya con Dios’, bless you Amen. As for me, sitting on my porch and most definitely not moving, for the first August in a decade, I say, ‘Hello, late summer, how’ve you been?’. Also, I say thank you, Amen.
