Sasee Magazine

Our son drove his pickup truck filled with his stuff. We were in our Jeep filled with more of his stuff. From a computer to plastic stackable color-coordinated crates to extra-long sheets to a microwave appropriately sized for a dorm, the cost of a college education had taken on a completely different perspective.

“Are you buying carpet for his room?” my friend (whose daughter was attending the same university) asked.

“I didn’t think of that,” I admitted. “Did you get her a coffee maker?”

“I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.

For a computer, we purchased a laptop with speakers, a subwoofer, and a CD/DVD burner. He wanted a laptop since the campus was designed with ports everywhere, even next to park benches.

We, along with hundreds of other parents, helped our kid get his things up to his dorm room. We watched excitedly nervous freshmen and smiled at their suddenly choked up parents. We met his roommate and his roommate’s parents.

“You made his bed?” my neighbor asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“I forgot to make her bed,” she said. “I feel so bad.”

“Don’t feel bad. She probably didn’t even notice.”

“Maybe I should drive down and visit her. Would you come with me?” she asked. “I feel so guilty.”

“I’m sure she’s made her bed by now,” I said.

We took a walk around the campus. He picked up his books he ordered online at the bookstore. All he had to do was click YES and enter a credit card number. Our son treated us to super-sized sodas at the Student Center using his pre-paid food card that we paid for.

“Don’t forget to call your mother,” my husband said. “You know how she gets.”

On the ride home, my husband and I made awkward, choked-up small talk. There were uncomfortable silences as my husband continued to drive, and I wiped tears from my eyes as I looked out the window.

We discussed how the university makes things much easier than when we were in college. Our son applied to his schools of choice, viewed pictures of dorms and chose one, registered for classes online and paid fees online. He corresponded with his roommate online before they even met. Last week, he went to his personal account at the university’s website and found his schedule in list, graph, and map formats. He can access anything he needs from this site including his bill, a calendar of events and deadlines, degree requirements and what he needs to do to fulfill these requirements, a directory of students and professors, and his grades. He can communicate with his professors, order a pizza, access the library, and submit all papers without ever leaving the dorm.

While driving, my husband and I reminisced about the agony of getting approval for, and registering for, classes back in the pre-computer age. We also remembered our parents receiving our grades via U.S. mail. Back in the Stone Age, the requirements for our dorms consisted of bringing our torn jeans, an 8-track player, a typewriter, a dictionary, and carbon paper. Students today would not know what 8-track players, typewriters, or carbon paper even were. At the end of the corridor in our son’s dorm, there were two old phone booths for payphones that were no longer there. We remembered the phone messages we each found taped to our doors from our parents when we were in school: “What’s the matter? Is your finger broken?” That won’t be the case with our son who will be able to be accessed via email or cell phone at any hour. In our son’s dorm, each room is wired with phone access with call waiting, cable TV access, and Ethernet capabilities connected to the university’s huge computer system. My son has copy machines in the lobby of his dorm in case his printer/scanner/fax/copier fails to work, or he neglects to buy ink for it. My husband made comments when we were in our son’s dorm about how with all the electronic paraphernalia, there was no room to write on the desks. My son and his new roommate both looked at him in amazement that anyone could be so out of the loop as they continued to hook up their printers.

I am proud of my son’s achievements which gained him acceptance into such a fine university, but the shock of my son moving out on his own has hit me like nothing I ever expected. In fact, I spent the last two days cleaning his room, drowning out the sound of maternal sobbing with a powerful steam carpet-cleaning machine. Not that his room was that dirty, although there were Dr Pepper stains on his carpet and other questionable marks on his walls, hidden from me when he suddenly decided to rearrange his furniture a year ago. I moved his bed back up against the windows where it used to be so my cats can look out and chase blowing leaves, flying birds, and the occasional lizard that races from one safe spot to the next. I went through my kitchen cabinets and pulled out items no one else in my house eats for my son’s first care package. I wondered if parents still sent care packages since food facilities are so easily accessible. I cleaned the bathroom so my younger son can’t say, “He did it!” when it gets too disgusting in there. I also anxiously kept the computer on, hoping to see my son’s screen name pop up on my buddy list. It didn’t. Instead, the phone rang last night, and my husband, younger son and I each had a short conversation with our suddenly grown-up son. When my younger son got on the phone, he said, “We’re renting your room to a Swedish exchange student named Inga.” It was the first time I laughed in days.