My old roommates spent last weekend at my house for our alma mater’s Homecoming. I have an amazing group of friends from college, who I happened to stumble upon almost in spite of myself. Phil calls them “My Crowd.” We graduated from Villanova University, a school that was NOT my top choice…in fact, it wasn’t really my choice, period. 

As a senior in high school, I was all set to slip on a pair of cowboy boots and soak up the sun in Tucson at the University of Arizona.  However, after the unfortunate Donna Martin prom situation, my parents began to wonder if sending my sorry drunk ass across the country was such a good idea.  They thought I would benefit from a smaller, Catholic school…with single sex dorms….and curfews….and bars on the windows…oh, and don’t forget the crucifixes and crosses.   Lots and lots of crosses.

I feared that I would suffer through the four years alone, sitting in my room chain-smoking cigarettes while watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie, comparing myself to the quirky, misunderstood characters like Eliza Jane or all the random one-episode  characters named Elmer. But as they say, the Lord (and we know He was HANGING AROUND) works in mysterious ways, and I ended up finding a group of friends who introduced me to parts of myself that I did not know existed…or maybe had just forgotten about. 

They got me to stop writing bad poetry and start throwing really slamming parties without getting caught (see Donna Martin Prom Situation).  They opened me up to a world where life is not so serious, where hurling tater tots at stuck-up bitches in the dining hall is sometimes necessary, and a beer with lunch is not only acceptable but highly recommended. By taking life less seriously, I learned somewhere along the way to take myself less seriously.College friends are your surrogate family for 4 years.  They know you in a way no one else can.  They were there when you got your nose pierced or peed into a Rolling Rock bottle on a moving bus.  They dyed your hair platinum, cleaned up your puke and taught you how to perform certain sex acts on a ketchup bottle.  They gently advised against hooking up with THAT GUY again but then let you cry about it when you did it anyway.  

They have seen it all…which means you have nothing to hide. This kind of radical acceptance allows you to be whoever you are in the moment-silly, catty, weepy, bitchy, quiet, loud- without fear of judgment or rejection.So here we are, almost 15 years later, and many of the details of our weekends together have changed: Beer has given way to wine (that’s not from a box), and Hamburger Helper Beef Stroganoff replaced by organic, grass fed tenderloin.  Showing up with a pillow and a backpack has mushroomed into  Pack ‘N Plays, toys, breast pumps, bottles, formula, monitors, soothing sound machines, and Holy Shit you said YOU packed Billy the Bunny!   “Sleeping in” now means sleeping past 7 AM without someone whining in your ear or sitting on your face (no, not Phil).   At the Homecoming picnic you will find us at the moon bounce or face painting station, not camping out by the keg (except for Phil). 

Yet despite the added complications, the “showing up” is the key; the glue that holds it all together.  College was all about physical closeness- sharing bathrooms, clothes, the last Diet Coke.  In a sense this needs to be recreated a few times a year…because nothing- not a text or email- that can replace the real thing. 

Even the cutest Facebook picture is a far cry from holding your friend’s baby in your arms.  You need to eat egg sandwiches and drink coffee in your pajamas.  You need to play Polly Pockets or Matchbox cars with her kid so she can actually take a shower without someone playing peek-a-boo with the curtain (no, not Phil).  You need to refill her wine glass as you wash dishes side by side.  This is where you go beyond “So how are things?” 

This  is where you peel back another layer of the onion…where you hear about the dreams of a career change…how this new guy might be “the one”….the latest family drama….the Bad Mommy stories…all the sex you should be having. This is where you talk, you drink, you listen…you show up.  

We’ve been through a lot together: weddings, funerals, births, surgeries, bad break-ups, eating disorders, bad decisions, illnesses, eighty hour work weeks.  At times it can be tough to show up and shut up, to be compassionate, to LISTEN, to not take her by the shoulders and say “What are you DOING?!!” 

Sometimes you are too caught up in your own shit and you miss the mark, you let her down, you step on her feelings…but then you realize it….you keep showing up…and she forgives you….because even when you are a knucklehead, she knows you are still you underneath.

Which kind of makes you wonder….if you have people who love you in spite of all that….there must be something about you to love.  Maybe you really are as great as they think you are…

…because they keep showing up.

At your best, at your worst..they keep on showing up.

Ian is coming home for Fall Break!  Have not seen him since late August.  And he barely calls home from art school – a good sign, right? 

In this photo, he’s with Freddy, his steadfast friend since toddler days.  Now they’re both freshmen in college….so this shot of them at the bar in Freddy’s family house in the mountains seemed like an appropriate choice.  Ah, it’s a long way from Thomas the Tank Engine, their first shared obsession.

Here’s to a great weekend.  Cheers!

As I write, I’m listening to one of my favorite David Gray songs on my little purple iPod, and the title seems to be the perfect headline for today’s post about taking Ian to college last Thursday with Chris.

Yes,  I cried, but only at the very end of the day….and only when I looked at Chris.  We had both hugged Ian in his dorm room, and turned to go out the door..and then I looked at my husband’s face.  All our years of courtship, marriage, infertility treatments, pregnancy, childbirth and childrearing are written on his visage, as they are on mine.  Locking eyes with Chris, I began to sob.  

It was a selfish cry on my part.  Because we will no longer have Ian with us in the house….but also a happy cry…because he will be with other kids his age, living and breathing art around the clock.  His dorm suite is fantastic.  His RA is friendly - and from our hometown!  His roommates are great.  Without comparing notes ahead of time, because they are boys, they all still managed to bring compatible items.

Maryland Institute College of Art  is amazing.  It was all overwhelming, in the best possible way.  There was a wonderful orientation for the parents.  The provost, in particular, impressed us with his speech.  He said ‘Your son or daughter is used to being the art kid -  the art star – at his or her high school.   At MICA, your child will be one of many art stars.  Don’t worry, your son or daughter would not have been admitted if he or she did not measure up to our standards.  They are ALL talented.”  He added, “That said, each will be doing much experimental work here.  In December, when you are reviewing their work, please suppress the impulse to say…”what the HECK!?” 

Repeatedly, we were reminded that 5:30 was the appointed time to “say goodbye and attend the parent reception before leaving campus.” 

And so we drove back home, just the two of us, and settled into a routine with Hugh and Malcolm.  We all miss Ian, but as my grandmother said years ago when her first grader asked “Mama, do you miss me when I’m at school?”… “Yes, but it’s a NICE miss.”

The natural order of things has occurred.  We need merely to adapt.

I took Ian to check out the place.  He seemed to like it OK, but only because at the end of our visit, we left together.  Over the next day or two, we chatted briefly about Friendly Faces, but then the subject was dropped.  Meanwhile, I registered him and picked a start date.

On the fateful morning, I got Ian dressed and ready.  There I was, billowing around in a huge pregnancy top (this was back when we tried to hide our “outies”), and there Ian was, little and nervous and wondering what was up.  I did everything wrong.  I was coy about where he was going.  I said things like “You’re going to have fun today.  Mommy will come pick you up later, after you have lunch and a nap!”  As his face crumpled, I added, “You’ll play with other children!”  He remained suspicious.

As we drove down our block, Ian’s voice came floating from the car seat in the back.  Sounding wobbly, he said “Mommy?  Are we NOT going to Friendly Faces?”  How heart-breaking was that that one tiny word?  Clearly, he didn’t want to go there.  And yet, yes, that is where I was driving him.  I, the traitor in the maternity tent, was marching my baby into the hands of strangers, just so I could have a few hours of peace.

Weeks later, after Ian had settled in a bit, one of the teachers saw a large cat-like creature prowling through the nearby woods.  For the next few days, the children did not go outside to frolic.  On the fence of the playground hung a sign:  “Closed on account of cougar.”  

This did not inspire confidence in a place that we had taken to calling “Fiendish Faces.”  We were happy when we moved to a different town a few months later, and Ian could attend a much friendlier, and much more nurturing, pre-school.

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This morning, Chris and I will drive Ian to start his freshman year at MICA.   His bike and easel are in the back of the car, along with paints, a trunkful of classic books, two pillows, and some new stuff from Target and H&M.  I expect to ride in the back seat.  And this time, it will be my wobbly voice. aimed at the backs of heads in front of me.

“Are we NOT going to college?”

Ian checks the old-fashioned mail every day, looking for his college roommate assignment.

Word is, the envelopes were mailed out of Baltimore yesterday, so everyone in the Mid-Atlantic states should have his or her assignment today.

Ian has not had a roommate since 1998, when Malcolm learned how to climb out of his crib.  At that point we got rid of the crib, turned the nursery into a single bedroom for Ian, and sent Malcolm to the bunk-bedroom with Hugh.  As the eldest child, Ian has enjoyed having his own room for all these years.  He’s written on the ceiling, put whatever he wanted on the walls, and decorated the floor with mountains of clothes.  Having a roommate will be quite a switch.

MICA offers a fabulous new glass dorm, with outdoor patios on the upper floors and stylish cafes.  Here, most of the rooms are singles – and each single has its own private art studio attached.  But this dorm is for seniors – and you get in by lottery.  Freshmen at MICA all live in a brick-dormed setting called the Commons, with one entry point and a center grassy yard.  It’s safe, secure, and communal.

Ian’s wait for the roommate news makes me remember my own pre-college summer.  My mom gave me great advice, which was “Go for the suite.  Each has four rooms with a bathroom in the middle, and six girls.  You’re bound to really hit it off with at least one of your roommates.” 

Liking the odds, I marked my preference for a suite.  I’ll always remember receiving a phone call from one of my suitemates, Sally, who told me she was calling on her father’s WATS line from Lancaster, PA.  I didn’t know what a WATS line was but didn’t want to admit that.  A few times I said “This is getting expensive so we should hang up” and she said “No, it’s a WATS line.”  I ended up agreeing to bring my stereo, which was a basically a plastic close-n-play, because Sally’s stereo is “like a piece of furniture.”  Funny how I remember her exact words.

Because I was always extremely independent, I took the train from Jefferson City MO to Columbus OH by myself, then a taxi to Denison, arriving in Beaver Hall at dawn on Labor Day.  The Jerry Lewis Telethon was my entertainment until the hour was decent enough to knock at my suite door and meet the roommates. 

The girls in my suite were fine.  I went on Fall Break to Chicago with one and Spring Break to New York City with another, but they did not become my closest friends.  I really loved the girls who lived in the suite exactly one floor below, and I was constantly visiting them.  To this day, two of them, Lindsay and Missy, are among my closest friends.

So my mom was right, the odds were way better in a suite.  And the kicker?  My suite in Beaver Hall was exactly the same one my mom lived in when she arrived at Denison in 1948, as a transfer student from Colorado Women’s College. 

Ian’s dorm life will be radically different.  No dorm-mothers.  No unlocked campus doors during the day, or ever.  No long lines to use the shared telephones in the hallways.  Probably not even any blaring stereos, close-and-play or “piece of furniture” or otherwise.

But the hopes and anxieties about roommate compatability remain unchanged.  Let’s hope today’s mail brings good news.

In our world, “gap” is now linked with the word “year,” and it means Ian is taking time off between high school graduation and freshman year of college.

We’re completely on board with this concept.  What a great idea, to take a bit of time before leaping from the frying pan into the fire.  To have some adventures, grow up a bit, and recover from school fatigue.  When in life do you have more time, more energy, and more opportunity to take this kind of break?  Gap/bridge years, long a popular concept in Europe, are now a hot trend in America as well.

Ian has deferred admission to the Maryland Institute College of Art, where he’ll join the freshman class in the fall of 2010.

Everyone asks:  “So what’s he doing with his gap year?”  That’s a great question.  Answers are still being worked out.  Fall:  study art in Europe.  He’s pretty fluent in Spanish, so Spain would be a great choice.  Maybe Italy, full of bikes and pizza.  We hope he’ll be back here for Thanksgiving, or at least Christmas.  Spring:  paying job or internship, and  some volunteer work.

More immediate deadlines loom.  Getting tux and transport ready for the prom.  Procuring chips, cake and candy bars for a grad party (the menu Ian actually proposed last night.)  Arranging for a new passport, since the one from 1996 shows our firstborn with fat cheeks, a train sweater, and a bowl cut.

Whatever the near-term future holds, it’s safe to say adventure and travel will play important roles. 

PS  Wednesday Spaghetti hosted by Emily and Dave went off without a hitch.  Excellent sauce too.  THANKS!

Apparently, finding material is not a problem for this guy.  

BOOKS:  Casting back to this earlier post, I have read  Out Stealing Horses (almost dreamlike, brutal but beautiful), and am just finishing Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan (wonderful premise, great narrator, packed with funny and serious observations).  It was a treat to go from the ice and snow of Norway to the heat and jungles of Burma.  OSH was written in spare, stark prose - and then there’s Amy Tan, a wizard of wordiness.  I loved both of these, suggested by Melanie.  However, I could not get into her pick Ella Minnow Pea, even though the premise is clever and it’s all about words and language. Will try again.

Again, I’m so grateful for all the reading suggestions from you MOBsters.  It makes me feel snug and secure, knowing there’s a long list of good books in the pipeline.  On Thursday I’ll put up the entire list of recommendations.

COLLEGE:  This is crunch week - schools need to know on May 1 which kids have accepted their offers, and which kids are going elsewhere.  As a recent newspaper article said, ”A lot of families will be sitting around the table on Thursday night with a whiteboard.”  Memo to self:  get a whiteboard with magical decision-making abilities. 

 STINKBUGS:  And going back many months, I must re-visit the topic of hideous stinkbugs.  These god-awful things are everywhere, and they are driving me mad.  I can’t just shrug and co-exist with them, I must wage war upon each and every one.  As you can imagine, this doesn’t help my daily productivity quotient.  I describe my favorite waterboarding technique in the old post, and I continue to stand by this method.

But I’ve found an effective new technique of stinkbug torture as well.  This involves scooting said vermin onto a sheet of paper, then slapping a huge piece of strong tape down on top of them.  Don’t let any antennae or skinny arms and legs stick out – I’ve seen them escape through tiny gaps.  In a pinch, several criss-crossing bits of regular Scotch tape will do.  It’s kind of like home-made flypaper.

These scourges are the size of jellybeans.  When they make contact with solid objects, a small thud results.  They buzz, they swarm to lights by night and to windows by day.  No pesticide has been found to work against them.  Last night, Malcolm noticed the hall light was full of charred and dessicated stinkbug husks.  Today, I cleaned out the globes, chuckling grimly at the carnage – and the evidence that – haha – they can’t escape every danger, can they?

Please tell me Stinkbug Season will be over soon.

And here’s a shot of her daughter, my mother, Carol, on a first day of school in the 1930s in Ottawa, Kansas. This was before backpacks were invented. My mom also went to college in Denver for her first two years, then transferred to Denison University in Granville, Ohio.

Tomorrow my first baby, Ian, will travel to Baltimore to tour two colleges. Here he is in a newspaper photo back in 3rd grade, preparing for a Y2K crisis that never arrived.

He’ll have an interview and a portfolio review, and I’ll experience sticker shock, and he’ll help drive – because he got his full-fledged license last week – and it’s all starting to happen really fast. I’m sure my great-grandparents felt the same way when their firstborn, Lorene, went off to Denver.