Today is move-in day.
Or as I think of it, move-out day. Our 18-year-old daughter is moving out of our home. The home in which we’ve made a million memories, cried a thousand tears, laughed a billion laughs, and felt safe, happy, and whole.
And it will never feel quite whole to me again.
College.
How did we get here? I know it’s cliché, but the time has flown. Our daughter is moving into her own dorm, with her roommate, without her parents and her three siblings. And I’m just supposed to casually act like I’m fine with it when I’m anything but.
Don’t get me wrong, though. I am so incredibly proud of her. I am so incredibly excited for her. I have so many happy feelings in my heart right now, but I can’t help but feel completely heartbroken. We’ve raised her for this. For 18 years, we’ve tried to teach her to be responsible, mature, and independent, and she is all of those things and more. But it doesn’t stop my heart from hurting like I haven’t had 18 years to prepare for this moment.
This is not a normal Wednesday.
This is the day we help our daughter move out of our home. The day we hug her, and it’s a goodbye…but not a goodbye until tomorrow or until she gets home tonight. It’s goodbye. She no longer lives with us. She’s grown up, and she’s moving out.
For the past several months, we’ve prepared for this moment in all the reasonable ways. Buying all the new things for her dorm. Making sure she has all the things to make it feel like home, to make it fun and cute, and to make sure she has every single medication known to mankind in case she doesn’t feel well (see: me getting the side-eye – and ID’d – from the Target checkout associate as I’m buying Tylenol and ibuprofen and Benadryl, bandaids, nyquil, Dayquil, antihistamine, etc. because she just knew I had some sort of new meth recipe I was headed straight to my car to cook).
This is motherhood.
You spend 18 years teaching your child to be independent and then spend the summer buying them everything they need to live on their own, and you dread the day as it approaches. And now we are here.
Except this isn’t a typical move-in day
My daughter isn’t exactly starting college the way most 18-year-olds do. She’s going in as a junior. She graduated high school with her AA in May, and she’s two years ahead of schedule. While so many other parents are busy helping their freshmen figure out how college works, we are dropping off a miniature adult who already has a college degree and has already completed two courses online over the summer at her new university…and she has no intention of slowing down.
I am ridiculously proud of her. Like…embarrassingly proud.
She’s worked incredibly hard for this. She earned it. And she is ready for her new chapter. Which is exactly what I wanted for her. It’s also exactly what makes this so hard. We’ve taught her to walk and talk, to tie her shoes, to read, to drive, to make decisions, to advocate for herself, to do her own laundry, to be confident, independent, to try new things, that it’s okay to make mistakes and learn from them, to go after what she wants.
And she’s done it. She’s gone after what she wants, and here it is. Because today is the day she’s actually done it.
And I’m standing here in front of her half-empty bedroom, missing her already.
The weirdest part
She’s only an hour away. One. One hour. That’s all. She’s not far. She’s going to her dream school. She stayed in-state, close to home, and I can see her as often as I’d like. I can pop down any day to take her to lunch and still make it home in time to pick the little kids up from school. I can bring the things she left home that she needs and not even need to plan for a trip. When I miss her, I can get into my car (okay, I’d be in my car every minute of every day living under her bed, so I’ll try to be a little cooler about it).
If she wants to go to dinner, I can be there in an hour. If she’s having a bad day, I can be there in an hour. If she’s having a great day, I can be there in an hour. But even though it’s not far, it still feels enormous. Because it’s a big change.
I want her to have the biggest, happiest, most exciting life possible. I want her to meet people who will become lifelong friends. I want her to make amazing memories. I want her to discover who she is when she’s not our daughter or her sibling’s sister. I want her to become completely and unapologetically herself.
I just wish I could watch all of it without feeling like someone is slowly removing pieces of my heart and putting them into a dorm room.
This is the midlife mom part nobody talks about
At this stage of life, I’m watching so many things begin and end. My kids are getting older. My daughter is moving out. But I still have three kids at home. One is learning to drive. Two are almost teenagers. Our home is changing. Our routine is changing. My role is changing. I’m changing. For 18 years, much of my identity has been wrapped up in being her mom. Not just a mom. Her mom.
The person who knew what she needed before she asked, who knew when something was wrong just by the tone of her voice or the look on her face, who knew her schedule and her friends, and her favorite foods and her dreams and moods and quirks better than anyone.
I’m still her mom. She’s still my baby. That will never change. But now I have to learn to be her mom from an hour away…not just from upstairs.
I am so excited for her
Nothing will change how happy and excited and proud I am, even my heart breaking a little (a lot) today. She’s going to be okay. She’s going to be better than okay. She’s going to be amazing. Because she already is amazing. She’s going to thrive. I know this. Because I know her, and I know what she’s capable of.
But I’m still going to cry
A lot. Because what I’m learning as a midlife mom is that I can be so proud that I could burst and also so sad I could collapse at the exact same time. Apparently, those feelings can coexist. I know that because today, they do.
Today I’m doing something really hard (and really exciting)
I’m going to let her go, and it’s not because I want her gone. I don’t. Because I want her to go. I want her to run toward this new life, to be excited, and to be proud. The world is hers. And I want her to know that no matter how far she goes, there is always a place she can call home…a place where she is always welcome, and where she is always loved beyond measure. There is always a place for her here with her family.
I taught her to be strong, independent, and brave. And today, she’s teaching me to be all of those things.
So…go, Addybug. Go be a junior at your dream university. Go make new friends and make new memories. Go have fun and learn. Go figure out who you are becoming and what you want. Go live the life you’ve worked so hard to build. I can’t promise I won’t call or text too much, or want to visit you all the time, but I can promise you that I will always be right here (probably crying). I miss you already.
Go Bulls.
And Go Addy.
Tiffany Raiford 