Giving my blades a rest

When your oldest kid is nearing 13 and about to enter eighth grade, believe me, it does not escape your notice for a moment that the next five years will pass so quickly it'll make your heart ache. When you drop off that boy for a week-long camp at a university, that awareness increases a hundredfold.

Last Sunday, we drove Ben to the UW-Madison campus, where he would participate in a week-long engineering camp. Ben has never been away from us for more than three or four days, so that was enough of a mental hurdle. The eeriness of dropping him off at "college" unsettled me completely.

We took Ben as a family, thinking it would be "fun" to spend a summer afternoon together in Madison. We did enjoy a lovely lunch together before making our way to the dorm where Ben would stay. Ben hurriedly scarfed down his food, excited and filled with nervous energy.

He's exceptionally handsome. Just saying.

We arrived at check-in, and Ben was presented with the key to his dorm room (see how weird that sounds?). He had two-plus hours to kill, and the counselors told us we could stay or that he could just hang with the counselors and other campers.

We checked out Ben's room, hoping to meet his roommate and family. By this time, Gus was done. "I. Can't. Walk. Any. More."

I really wanted to stay to make sure that Ben was okay. I've read plenty about helicopter parenting and knew, however, it would be best for us to leave.

In theory, I think it makes perfect sense to give kids autonomy and freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. In practice, it's hard for me. I'm one who loves to nurture.

Every time I see a headline decrying helicopter parenting, I bristle a bit. For one thing, as a parent, it feels like just one more way to tell us, "You're doing it wrong!"

Also, a lot that I read and hear tends to focus on outlandish examples of helicopter parenting that seem way out of the norm to me. The parent writes the child's essays for him. A college graduate interviewee's mom calls the interviewer on her son or daughter's behalf. In reality, I think most of us fall somewhere between "free-range" and helicopter parent.

Wrestling with stay or go, I know that Gus soon will torture us all with his meltdown anyway, so I slow and then stop my helicopter blades. I set aside worries that Ben will somehow not figure out how to use his access card to get into the building or that his roommate won't show and he'll be all alone in his sad little room for a whole week. I resolve let him figure things out on his own.

I start to say, "Please try to text us at least something short each day."

I stop myself, give him the freedom but not entirely. "Let us hear from you at least a couple times, okay?"

I push my sunglasses onto my face to hide the tears springing to my ears and pull Ben in for a patented stiff Ben hug, no kiss, and say goodbye, that I love him and will miss him so much.

Later that night, Ben texts. "Had fun today, got a roommate named Cooper."

That's about as effusive as it gets for our boy. We all laugh that Ben's roommate shares the same name as our dog. At dinner, Paul spontaneously bursts into tears. "I. Miss. Ben!!!" Me too. It's weird without him here.

I've heard from Ben sporadically this week, texts laden with emotion: "Hey. It's the second day."

Me, hungry for details: "How's the food?"

Him: "Foods good."

In our quick text sessions and our one brief phone call, I want to pump him for information. I know, however, that whether I talk to him one of these ways or in person, I'll likely only receive grudging, monosyllabic responses.

I can hardly bare it, but next week, he will leave again for a few days to accompany his friend on vacation.This is his time, his time for pulling away, and I want, or rather, need to honor that. The fact that it's normal and expected isn't really enough balm to heal.

Over the next months and years, I'll aim to fall somewhere in the middle of the parenting spectrum. I'll obsess over his grades, but in the end I'll let him do some trying and failing, as that's part of life and growing. Maybe he won't become valedictorian, though I know he's more than capable. He needs to pursue his own passions and find his own way. I'll encourage him to make his own oatmeal in the morning, maybe even make him start making his own school lunches, but I'll secretly love to make him his favorite scrambled eggs with ham and toast.

I'll try to cool my blades, and painful though it may be, I'll let him learn to fly on his own.