Writing Home

For most of us, part of being a baby boomer is seeing our own babies grow up. It feels pretty good….but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Writer Cindy LaFerle, whose new column collection “Writing Home” has just been published, found that she had to go out on a wing and a prayer to learn to let go.

The paradox of parenting is this: The better I’ve done my job, the higher my child will fly — farther away from me. – Author unknown

A jet bound for London’s Heathrow Airport left the country in February carrying 120 rowdy college students — including my only child. Two hours before takeoff, he’d looked nervous and excited, and I couldn’t help but recall the first time I dropped my little boy off at kindergarten 14 years ago.

As his dad and I pulled away from the airport, I lost my well-rehearsed composure and dissolved into a ridiculous puddle of tears, right there in the car. Focused on the road ahead, my husband looked a little teary, too. But he quickly reminded me that our son was on his way to the educational opportunity of a lifetime — not to a war zone. Studying in London for four months is hardly as dramatic as being shipped off to Iraq with the military.

Besides, I should be used to these post-holiday parting rituals by now. Our son is a junior in college, and we’ve waved goodbye to him often enough to be reasonably cool about it.

Like most parents we know, my husband and I have always encouraged our child’s independence. Finally at peace with our new AARP membership, we’ve got more time, space, and freedom to redefine ourselves as a couple. Better yet, our house stays cleaner now. Even so, the speed at which our boy has reached adulthood makes me feel strangely uprooted on my own turf. My leading role as “Mom” is fading to a cameo.

I’ve often wondered if this letting-go business is harder on parents who have only one child. Not so, my friend Debbie reminded me recently. Deb has two daughters — one my son’s age, the other in high school.

Deb also drove her college student to the airport. While my son is at school in London, Deb’s daughter will be studying art in Italy. Deb realizes, like I do, that this is a fabulous opportunity for a young person. Regardless, she gets a little weepy each time she remembers that her firstborn is living across an ocean and isn’t just a cheap phone call away. But what it really boils down to is this: we’re all getting a sneak preview of the not-so-distant future. More than likely, our kids will be working far from home after college graduation.

Furthermore, if you’re a mom who tends to worry, it doesn’t help that we live in an age when terrorism is standard fare on the nightly news. My imagination is propelled into overdrive each time my son boards a plane, for instance, and I can recite every deadly hijacking in the history of air travel. I lie awake in bed thinking about subway bombings, mugging attempts, or even food poisoning. (As soon as President Bush announced plans to dispatch 21,500 additional troops to Iraq, I conjured images of anti-American protesters in the streets of London, tossing rocks or grenades at unsuspecting tourists while my boy tried to make his way to class.)

Of course, I know better. When the logical half of my brain takes over, I finally calm down. I remind myself that travel is the world’s best teacher. No matter how many diplomas you can hang on your wall, it’s what you discover outside your comfort zone that really molds your character. It doesn’t really matter whether you’re visiting Ohio Amish Country or Paris, France. There’s always an opportunity to witness a way of life you hadn’t considered before.

Years ago, when I was a travel magazine editor, my husband and I toured some remarkable places that we wouldn’t have visited otherwise. And we always returned home feeling changed for the better. When our son was old enough to travel with us, we always planned our family vacations with the hope that he too might learn to look at life through a new lens.

We wouldn’t dream of holding him back now. “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page,” wrote St. Augustine. I rediscovered that quote in one of my old travel journals this afternoon. I plan to recopy it in a letter I’ll send to my son — along with a coy reminder to phone home soon.

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