As I prepare to witness my youngest daughter’s senior year of high school, I am reminded of a time not long ago when a friend of mine was sending her youngest off to college. I frequently asked her, “How does it feel?” My inquiries were rooted in a mixture of jealousy, fear, and a hint of hope; I simply couldn’t envision the day my daughter would be leaving for college. She was just 14, stepping into her high school journey, and I was still recovering from the challenges faced during my older daughter’s high school years. Despite the fact that I was simultaneously sending my oldest to college, I felt as though I was stuck in an endless loop with my youngest, convinced that senior year was a distant reality.
“It’s hard to believe,” my friend would say, “and it’s going to feel strange.” For the first time in over two decades, both she and her husband would have their home to themselves, with all three of their children in college simultaneously.
In an attempt to track the time, I started signing our emails with both my name and the countdown to my daughter’s departure for college. “Three years, 18 months,” I remember typing at one point. Then it became “two years, 11 months.” While I didn’t mean to rush the passage of time, a part of me was. High school felt like a battlefield that we were compelled to navigate. By tallying the months and years, I wasn’t wishing for my daughter to leave; I was simply reminding myself that it would happen eventually.
Yesterday, as I baked cookies for her, a tradition I cherish, it hit me that my cookie-making days for her are limited. She adores having cookies for her lunches as a summer camp counselor and enjoys bringing them to my bed as a nighttime treat. I baked her favorite—red velvet—and realized how much I would miss mixing batter for her beloved double-chocolate breakfast muffins and cookies.
Of course, I can still send her baked goods while she’s at college. I envision boxes filled with cookies, muffins, and brownies, labeled boldly in black marker for the post office, ensuring they arrive fresh. She’ll share them with her roommate and friends, and I can already picture her telling them how her mom has always baked for her since childhood. This will surely make her popular, although I believe she would be well-liked regardless.
However, it won’t be the same. This realization has become clearer as we navigate this final year of high school together. I thrive on consistency; I dislike change. I prefer knowing the menu at restaurants, the routes I’ll take, and what lies ahead. Yet, my daughter’s senior year is challenging that comfort zone.
She has decided to apply to ten colleges, a mix of target schools, reach schools, and safeties. She assures me that she would be content at any of them, and that’s what matters—the happiness factor.
Next year, I might find myself sending cookies across the country or just a state away. Perhaps she’ll be close enough for me to deliver them directly to her dorm. The uncertainty of it all is unsettling, but it’s an inescapable part of this senior year for both her and me.
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In summary, as I approach the reality of an empty nest, I reflect on the bittersweet transition of my daughter’s senior year, the end of my cookie-baking routine, and the uncertainty that lies ahead.
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