Saying goodbye to your dog is one of the hardest parts of going off to college. / Staff photo by Mark KennedyThis is the week I've dreaded for 18 years. Our older son - our firstborn child - leaves for college.
I will miss the little things.
The heavy footsteps making the floors squeak in his upstairs bedroom. The Popsicle wrappers piled up on his bedside table. The neon blue truck in the driveway.
It's customary for parents to say this is a bittersweet moment, but bitter and sweet are the wrong words. This feeling is salty. Salty like tears.
Here's the truth. I've got a lump in my throat as big as a cue ball. It feels like a clenched fist pressing against my sinuses - like a bully telling me to give in and cry.
I've tried having a stern talk with myself: "This is not about you, old man."
And, of course, it's not.
Our son is prepared for college. He will be 19 years old in October. He is smart, resourceful and strong. Samford University is lucky to have him.
Still, some of you have been with us on this 18-year parenting journey. You know (or can imagine) how the sendoff must feel for his mother and me, either because of your own experiences with college-bound children or by reading this column for years.
"Don't go in his room for a few days," a friend texted us the other day.
Won't work. All the sweet memories from 18 years of fatherhood are already playing in a continuous loop in my head, like a grainy family movie.
The fretful newborn swaddled in a blanket, finally falling asleep against my chest as I watched the 2001 Diamondbacks-Yankees World Series. It was just weeks after the 9/11 terrorists attacks, but the bliss of becoming a first-time dad at 43 lifted me like a drug.
The 3-year-old with arms and legs wrapped around me, clinging to Daddy anxiously as I carried him into preschool at Battle Academy.
The 4-year-old hiding behind my legs - shy and nervous - at parents night at pre-K at our church.
The sports glories of elementary school, the home-run derby trophies, the third-grade cross-country medals.
And always, the soccer. So much soccer. Fifteen years' worth.
I remember highlights. A corner kick that whipped through the keeper's hands to win a tournament in Birmingham when he was 9. A header goal in the high-school state tournament and, with it, the same rush of fatherly pride.
But there were character-building losses, too. A hand ball negating an opponent's goal in a frenzied tournament final when he was 10. A water bottle slammed into a wastebasket after a punishing loss in the finals of an indoor tournament when it was 17.
But I'll take passion over perfection any day.
Work hard. Care. Fight. Those are the power tools of adult life.
I'm trying to not be too hard on myself for feeling a little sad.
We parents of college freshman aren't grieving for our 18-year-olds. We are grieving for the end of a childhood. The awkward goodbye hug in a faraway place. The driving away from campus. The obligatory Facebook college "drop-off" photos. The sad dog back home waiting at the door for "his boy."
I'm teaching a college class this semester at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, and I asked the kids: "What should I do, y'all? What if I feel like crying on drop-off day? Should I just hold it in?"
I was expecting these slightly older college students, mainly juniors and seniors, to cringe and tell me to avoid embarrassing my child at all costs.
But no.
"If you need to cry, cry," said one student.
"Your son might be embarrassed for a minute, but he will always remember that his dad really loves him," said another.
That settles it. I will be honest in the moment. If I cry, I cry.
I will taste those salty tears.
And I will know, without question, that I love my 6-foot-tall baby boy like the day he was born.
Email Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com.
View other columns by Mark Kennedy
Mark Kennedy / Staff file photo