How to recover from dropping off your first-year student? Rejoice in the knowledge that your experience was probably nothing like mine.
At least I hope it wasn’t.
Only 385 Families Are In Line Ahead of Us
We pull up to the dorm on move-in day a good 30 minutes early, only to discover everyone and their dogs got there before us. A long line snakes around the corner. Delightful. I thought summer swim meets with their canopies, clotheslines, sleeping bags, barbecues and tents were rather excessive, but they pale in comparison to the hundreds of plastic tubs, travel trunks, mini fridges, leashed canines, bulging totes, and mysterious lumpy bundles of fabric. All around us, friends call out, wave and hug cheerfully. It seems every second first-year knows someone else. Except M.
As I attempt to lovingly reassure our coed, my son H grabs my wrist. He turns to his older sister, and with a voice remarkably deeper than usual, urges her to search out a room key. She melts away with the confidence of a seal slipping off a rock into the sea.
“Okay, Mom, listen. You’ve got to let M do her thing. Don’t interfere. It’s important she lead the charge today. Not you,” H whispers emphatically.
Excuse me? I’ve not uttered one bossy syllable. There hasn’t been time.
M returns 15 minutes later with two strapping, sweaty fourth-years. At her regal nod, the three lads bundle up her worldly goods, leaving me to toddle along behind, clutching a ziplock bag of 15 plastic clothespins.
The Atmosphere In The Room Rivals That Of NASA On Liftoff Day
The room is smaller and older than anticipated. It smells of dusty, timeworn wood, and contains two single beds, matching desks and a pair of deep closets.
I’m stunned by the productivity.
The bed closest to the window is already beautifully made up with a colourful thick duvet and matching plump pillows. M’s roomie is hanging up the last of her freshly pressed clothes, Dad is fussing with a knot of modem and computer wires, and Mom is wielding an industrial-sized Lysol canister, intent on disinfecting every inch on her daughter’s side of the room.
Sidenote: this is 2012. I wouldn’t possess antiseptic spray for a good eight years.
After the quick round of polite introductions, H asks, “Okay if I set up your laptop and printer while you unpack, M?”
She nods gratefully and drags her behemoth suitcase into the closet. A gift from her grandmother, the trunk could easily double as a second bedroom.
Excellent. I’ll make up the bed. As I zip open the first of several plastic casings, the incessant spraying ceases. Roomie’s mom is now openly gawping, clearly horrified to learn we’ve not washed the toxic bedclothes. I begin to babble.
Who’s From Out of Town?
“We got in from Vancouver yesterday and it was just easier to pick up the bedding here …”
I’m about to ask the location of the laundry room when H interrupts me with an admonishing hiss and wagging finger, somewhat reminiscent of one’s reaction upon catching a puppy consuming Granny’s knickers. He then shoots a glance at the oblivious trio before whirling the finger in circles above his shaking head. Message received. “NO helicopter parenting allowed on the McKenzie side of the room.”
A red-faced M emerges from the closet, flapping a sheet of paper.
“The laundry times are listed here. I’ll wash them, Mom.”
Fine. I’ll just open all the packaging.
As I tug on the slippery acidic-scented mattress cover, H gently grabs my elbow. We crabwalk towards the door.
“I’ve got just the job for you, Mom. Cardboard duty.”
I spend the remainder of our visit out in the hallway stomping and flattening cardboard boxes. My fellow squashers, mostly siblings of the new residents, are all in their teens.
***
How To Recover From Dropping Off Your First-Year Student
These 11 years later, I reckon Roomie’s family is still dining out on the story of the mother being bullied by her children. At least, I sure hope so. Distraction is key at such bittersweet times.
And you, how to recover from dropping off your first-year student? It’s difficult. I know. However, take heart. Thanksgiving will be here before you know it. And so will Christmas break.
Above all, be grateful we live today. When my dad headed off east to the same university as M, his mother handed him a packed of ham sandwiches and waved him off at the Vancouver train station. Phone calls were only for dire emergencies and letters took weeks to arrive.
The photo of Dad’s class of ’43 still proudly lines the walls …
Enough about me and how to recover from dropping off your first-year. Have you a similiar experience? If you’d care to share, I’d love to hear.
Thanks for reading. I’d love it if you’d share this post. Thank you.
6 Responses
Love this story Kelly ! Made me laugh out loud !! I do not have any out of town university stories to share,but sure enjoyed yours !!
Thank you, Jane. I have written about it before and thought it was time for an update.
I’m laughing at the site of you in the hallway smashing cardboard with the (horror) younger siblings. Good on ya, Kelly! Parenting does nothing but keep us humble. And all these years later both kids are still talking to you so you played your role well.
Ha! So true about parenting keeping us humble, Katy. And what was with the requirement to get a new mini fridge every year? What a waste. I hope the policy has changed in the intervening years.
I only experienced the ‘first year student in the dorm’ once (with Oldest Son). Got through it acceptably-probably because Hubby and Other Sons were there to keep me on track.
Nice. It’s a bittersweet time, isn’t it?