‘Your mom went to college’

Last weekend, I took all three of my kids to see "Toy Story 5." Just me and the kids. 

We got popcorn, found our seats and settled in for a couple hours of animated nostalgia. 

Then, because apparently watching a movie together wasn’t enough quality family time, we went school-clothes shopping afterward. 

Taking four people to the movie theater these days is less of an outing and more of a financial event. Between the tickets, popcorn, sodas, soft pretzels and soft-serve ice cream, it probably left a $200 dent in my wallet. For two hours of animated toys. 

And that was before we went shopping for school clothes, which is an entirely separate column about how apparently a pair of jeans now requires a payment plan. 

Still, it was a good day. 

Nothing particularly remarkable happened. Nobody wandered off and got lost. Nobody had a meltdown in the theater. Nobody made me question whether I had actually raised them correctly.

It was just a normal day with my kids. Except it was also the last time all three of my kids would go somewhere together while living under the same roof. 

I didn’t really let myself think about that at the time. If I had, I probably would have spent the entire movie crying into my popcorn. Instead, I just enjoyed having all three of them together. 

Next week, I’m driving my oldest son to college. 

And that sentence still sounds like something that should be happening to somebody else’s family. 

I was a senior in high school when he was born. While everyone else was thinking about graduation, prom and what they wanted their lives to look like after high school, I was learning how to take care of a baby. 

I was still growing up myself. I didn’t have a career. I didn’t have a five-year plan. I didn’t have much of a clue what I was doing. I just knew I loved this tiny person more than I knew was possible. 

And then we grew up together. I learned motherhood one stage at a time while he learned how to become a person. I learned how to change diapers, pack lunches, survive school projects, navigate teenage years and eventually hand over the car keys without completely losing my mind. 

OK, that last one is still a work in progress. 

But now he’s 17. And next week, I’m going to drive him to college. 

There is something uniquely strange about sending your first child out into the world. 

You spend years teaching your kids how to become independent. 

You teach them to dress themselves, make their own breakfast, cross the street, make friends, solve problems, and eventually make decisions without asking you first. 

You spend 18 years preparing them not to need you. And then one day, you realize you’ve actually succeeded. It’s a pretty terrible business model for a mother. 

But I’m incredibly proud of him. I’m excited for him. I want him to go. 

I want him to experience life outside the little world we’ve built around him. I want him to make friends, make mistakes, figure things out and discover who he is when Mom isn’t five minutes away. 

But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for it. There’s a difference between knowing your child is growing up and actually watching him leave. 

I remember him as a baby. I remember his first steps, his first day of school, losing his first tooth, birthdays, Christmas mornings, school concerts and all the little moments that seemed so insignificant while they were happening. 

That’s the strange thing about raising kids. You don’t realize you’re living the memories you’ll someday miss. 

You live them. You pack the lunches. You yell from the other room. You take pictures. You buy the shoes they immediately outgrow. You complain about the laundry. You sit in movie theaters and buy overpriced popcorn. And then suddenly, you’re buying college supplies. 

I’m sure I’ll give him plenty of advice next week. I’ll tell him to eat something besides junk food. I’ll tell him to lock the door. I’ll tell him to keep his phone charged. I’ll slip in a "Napoleon Dynamite" reference (‘Your mom went to college!’) to keep things light and remind him I’m a fun mom and not to forget it. 

I’ll tell him to call me. He’ll probably tell me he knows. And he’ll probably be right. Because somewhere along the way, the little boy who needed me to do everything for him became a young man who can do most things himself. 

That’s what I wanted. That’s what every parent wants. We don’t always talk about how bittersweet it is to get exactly what we wished for. 

I became a mother when I was still a kid myself. I didn’t know how quickly the years would pass. 

If I could go back and tell the teenage me anything, I’d tell her to slow down. Not because she was doing anything wrong. Just because someday, she’d be sitting in a movie theater with that same baby — who would now be 17 — and she’d wonder where all those years went. 

Next week, I’ll load his things into the car and drive him toward whatever comes next. 

I’ll probably cry. He’ll probably pretend not to notice. And eventually, I’ll drive home without him. 

The house will be a little quieter. The family dynamic will be a little different. I’ll have to figure out how to be the mom of a college student while still being the mom of the two kids who are staying home. 

But for one more week, he’s here. And I’m going to enjoy that. I’m going to enjoy the noise, the mess, the ridiculous amount of laundry and knowing that if I yell his name from another room, I’ll hear a response. 

Come next week, though, I’ll be driving my first baby to college. The same baby who made me a mother while I was still a teenager. And although I’m not sure I’m ready to let him go, I think maybe that’s the point. 

You don’t raise children so they can stay little forever. You raise them so one day, they will go and be a part of a world that doesn’t include you, and they’ll be ready for it. 

Even if you’re not.