I'm taking my oldest to the airport in a few minutes. He is going back to Cincinnati, where in a couple of weeks he will begin his last year of college.
I usually volunteer to pick him up from the airport, but avoid the return trip for one simple reason- I hate goodbyes.
He's twenty-one, but leaving him at the terminal brings back so many painful memories. Like the first time I left him with a babysitter, or all those early mornings I had to drop him off at pre-K. There he sat with the other working mother's orphans, in a little room watching Sesame Street until school began.
Taking him to Boy Scout camp gave me an anxiety attack. He was leaving the STATE for a entire week. I will confess now, that I wrote the worst case scenario book (kidding- but I could have!)
I worried about snakes, homesickness, drowning- you get the picture.
When he left for college four years ago, I helped him pack his bags. I told his father that I would not make the drive to Ohio. I could not bear the thought of leaving him at the dorm, and driving 600 miles south without him.
I am going to say goodbye at the terminal with a smile and a big hug. Then I will drive south with my eyes streaming; a kleenex balled in my fist.
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