My son is headed off to college. I knew this day would come. | Opinion

Our son Louie is leaving for college and we’re facing the emotional wringer we’ve known would come.

Looking back, I can now confirm the best piece of advice I received regarding our first baby. I got it over 18 years ago when I told a friend that our baby had arrived.

“Hold him,” my friend Will told me. “Hold him every second you can.”

His point: During the stationary period when even rolling over lay in the distant future, we could have our way with him. “Soon enough he’s going to start walking, and from then on he’ll have somewhere to go. You’ll never again think, ‘I held my child today as much as I wanted to.’ So hold him while you can.”

We took that advice, practicing a selfish variant of attachment parenting based more on our insatiability for his touch than any needs of his. It probably helped — he cried very little, happily occupied himself with puzzles or books while we cooked or tidied, and has seemed to believe somewhere in his soul that he’s well looked after. Even when he started crawling, he couldn’t go far and hugs seemed to recharge him, so I didn’t miss him yet.

Then came those first couple steps, then more, then off he went. I knew even then that his travels would take him farther than the pile of cuddly stuffed things by the piano — to daycare, prom, and then God knows where. I’m glad of Will’s advice. Those long hours of holding, jiggling, carrying sustain me. They must; the future is long.

Which is why I’m glad about one other piece of advice — a simple piece my wife and I gave each other, regarding video. Focus not on birthday parties and vacations but on average moments. We wanted less celebration than documentation. We pledged to be able to remember how Louie went about his business when he could barely creep, when he first started cruising, when he rode a bike, trotted onto a basketball court. We documented average moments, when one of us noticed he was banging a spoon, holding a ball, dragging a blanket.

So one day as he crawled around, I turned on the camera. At that moment he made a sudden, palms-and-knees dash for the stairs, and so I have a record, accidentally, of an early solo ascent. You see him climb, huffing and puffing, up each step, and of course you see him get to the top and practically explode with glory.

But more important is a moment halfway up the stairs. With my hand close behind him making sure he didn’t fall, he makes his way up those carpeted stairs. Then, he hesitates, turning behind him to check: You’re there, right? You got me?

I wouldn’t have noticed were it not on video — that wide-open smile, that naked need for care, which he equated with me.

So my advice now is simple: catch those average moments. Because that’s the trade-off. Will was right — I will surely never again as long as I live get to hold my son in my arms enough to satisfy me. But that look halfway up the stairs — his trust, his belief that I’ll be behind him as he makes his way — that’s what you get in return.

I don’t know that it’s a fair trade-off. He’s going to college three states away, not least because of a healthy desire for that distance. On the stairs I could be right there to catch him. Now, he’ll have to catch himself, which is the way it should be. I’ve been managing the slow erosion of that duty. His actual absence, though, will be as heartbreaking as Will knew it would.

Still. Seeing him look back behind him, with that pure trust, those three digital seconds have sustained me,through the walking, the running, the driving. The distances grow greater as he continues to walk away as he should, as he must. I can always play that video and remember that he wanted to make sure I was behind him. And I can say: Oh, yes, I promise, every time you look back, I’ll be there. I’m right behind you.

Farther and farther behind every day.

This story was originally published August 18, 2023 at 11:20 AM.