I am not a pretty crier. Nor am I a discreet one or an inspiring one. I’ve actually seen a picture of myself crying and think I look like an intoxicated Mr. Clean suffering from a critical case of hay fever, a lack of sleep, and a smashed finger in the car door. All at the same time. I get tears in my eyes when I hear our national anthem. I choke up when a telethon- any telethon – reaches its goal. And, I’m an absolute mess when I see one of those commercials about abused dogs or cats.

So, you can imagine what the last few days have been like for me as I packed up and drove my daughter, child number two, away to her first year of college. In a different state.

Yes, yes, yes. I know I’ve been through this before. You are correct to point out that I should be an old pro at this.  And, that’s all true. Kind of. Three years ago I sent away my oldest child, my son, to college.  The first was the worst, for sure. In retrospect, it was a summer-long farewell in getting him out the door. I prepared and angst over his departure for months.  If you looked at the assortment of things I sent away with him – supplies, equipment, first aid gear, medicine, photos, and stupid little things with inspirational quotes- you’d have thought this poor kid was heading off to another continent for a multi-year trek through the wilderness. Who knew Ohio was actually so civilized at the time?

But that experience also taught me how hard it is to say goodbye to your child when you really mean “goodbye.”

It’s nothing like the first day you leave them alone at nursery school. It pales to the feeling you have when your little one is at home with a babysitter. It doesn’t hold a candle to their first day of kindergarten, their first sleepover with a friend, or the adventures of an overnight summer camp.

When you say goodbye to your college bound child, you know your life truly has changed. Forever.

About a year ago, I came to the realization that my second “goodbye” was fast approaching. So, I decided to start to prepare for it by visualizing myself in a movie moment with my daughter as we took that final stroll together on her new campus. Leaves were changing colors (OK, I was a little off, seasonally), happy coeds were all around us, and we’d stop to sit on a little, stone bench near a statue of one of the founding fathers. Then I’d share a few words of wisdom with her. I’d tell her I loved her, that I was proud of her and then hug her goodbye before I watched her walk away, into her collegial future.  

In my dreams, right? Well, our recent goodbye didn’t go that way.

After a day and a half of togetherness, getting her set up in her new dorm room, there came a moment where I realized that my work was done. Literally. And, to an extent, figuratively. I had finished everything on her to-do list. I was abundantly aware that she was settled, happy, and really not in the mood to entertain her dad. I understood. Her future had arrived. It was screaming out to her from this new world of ivy clad buildings.

“Well,” I said to her. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll head home early. It’ll be nice to beat the traffic.” I lied.

“If you want to grab something to eat first, that’d be fine, Dad,” she said to me. Lying runs in our family.

“Naw,” I said. “It’s time.”

Walking to our car I thought to myself how calm and composed I was. Maybe my year of visualizing this day had worked? Maybe I was actually going to give her the movie-perfect goodbye?

As we neared the car I pushed the button on the key chain remote to unlock the doors triggering a quick “beep, beep” to sound.

It also, seemingly, unlocked a year full of emotion within me as I suddenly found myself bursting into tears. I became Hoover Dam with two feet and all I could do was throw my arms around this child. Feeling my hold on her tiny body, I remembered the countless other times I held her. As a curly-haired newborn. A six-year-old with an ear infection. The little mermaid I taught to swim. The teenager with a broken heart, or the new driver who was scared to death with her first speeding ticket. But now I was holding a confident, young woman who was oh so ready to move on.

“Fir, mmrumble I gooberfundeestein you,” I think I managed to verbalize to her.

Thank goodness she understands me when I cry.

“I know, Dad,” she said. “I’m going to be fine.”

I then took the deepest breath my hyperventilating lungs would allow.

“I am just so proud of you,” I said. “And, I’m excited that you’re here, at this point in your life. Right now.”

That was all I could spit out because my nose was now joining in on my emotional meltdown.

Still hugging her, she whispered in my ear, “And, besides, I’ll see you in a month at Family Weekend!”

“Wrong,” I thought to myself. “Family Weekend is actually in 76 days. 76 long, long days.” But I didn’t say what I was thinking.

“I’m good,” I said. “I’m really good.”

And with that, I left.

When I arrived home, my 14-year-old son met me at the door.

“So,“ he started to say with one of those mean-bully-on-the playground-looks. “Did you cry, Dad?”

I ignored him. But trust me, in four years, he’ll have his day with me.

Read more from the Bobblehead Dad at www.bobbleheaddad.blogspot.com.