You can go now

The first time I gave my kid away he was three months old. It was late summer, Lisa was returning to school, and my “work” for the day involved a round of golf loosely tied to my career. 

If there was a way to measure guilt right then, I would have broken the scale. But if it wasn’t this day, it would have been the next, so I unstrapped Charlie from his car seat and entered the daycare building: bottle, diaper bag, a list of phone numbers that extended to distant relatives and possibly the FBI. When I scanned the staff and the tiny humans in their charge, I made broad, unfair judgments about all of them. It wasn’t personal. Not entirely, anyway.

There were some harried introductions, then reassurance that everything would be fine. This is always the hardest part, they said, but how would they know? I thought. They had never had a child as exceptional as this. 

Charlie was too young to process everything as it happened, but when the time came for me to hand him to a stranger, the range of emotions washed over his face in rapid succession. Confusion (Who is this?); recognition (You’re leaving me!); then betrayal (To play golf?!). It’s possible the last part didn’t register that way, but in Charlie’s case, I know his future self would approve.

I cried in the car after dropping him off, conflicted, but also late for my tee time. It really was a work day and I “had” to be there, but I get it. My job is weird. 

Still, Charlie survived that first day, and so did we. It helped that we didn’t really have a choice. Our kids went to daycare every day from a young age, which meant they learned to socialize early, but they also came home with 17 viruses before Thanksgiving—all for what equates to private school tuition. 

In the early days, the transitions were always tricky. I went to work later than Lisa, so Charlie and I developed a routine in which we hustled to daycare and I’d dump his assorted items in his cubby before trying to extricate myself cleanly. Hugs felt too dramatic, but slipping out without notice was too sneaky. With time, we concocted an alternative in which I actually didn’t want to leave, but our strong minded little boy would determine I had to. When he was old enough to walk, we came up with “the push.”  Two arms, eventually a running start. Imagine a 20-pound offensive tackle opening up a hole downfield. Charlie would drive into me, I’d fly out the door for effect, occasionally startling some helpless mother who was entering just as I left.

I heard laughter as I headed to my car, but made a point to not look back.  It helped knowing I didn’t need to.

—

Charlie is now two inches taller than me, and probably strong enough to land me in the emergency room if he wanted to push with purpose. 

I hadn’t thought about daycare much, but was reminded recently. The occasion was the second time we gave him away. 

We were driving him to college, an event that loomed for most of the summer, if not longer. Everything was a milestone. High school graduation. Our last family vacation, then a last family dinner. On the 18th hole one evening in late August, I remarked this will be our last golf hole together, which drew a chuckle. I’m not going off to war, Charlie noted. Just Maine. 

Ahead of dropoff day, Lisa’s advice was simple. This can’t be about you, she said. You need to be calm. For most of the day, I remained on task. Shirts in this drawer, extra sheets here. There was lunch, then a meet-up with his new golf coach and teammates. By 2 p.m., he was all moved in, and we were out of things we needed to do. 

This was the only weird part. Charlie had grown quiet as we debated our next move. We were sitting on the bed of his dorm room when I detected a familiar look. “You’re leaving me?” I thought it said. All summer he had been stoic, almost dismissive, about leaving home, but now I was sure I sensed apprehension. Shit, I thought. This is going to be hard.

We had to drop something off down the road, so we walked out of the dorm, Charlie and I up front, Lisa a few paces behind. At one point Charlie glanced over his shoulder, and when he sensed his mother was out of earshot, he leaned toward me. Here it comes.

“I kind of want you guys to leave,” he said.

I stopped walking. 

“Oh,” I said. Then I told Lisa.

“Oh,” she said. 

We were relieved, and a bit surprised, but I later realized we shouldn’t have been. Charlie has developed a lighter touch, but he also doesn’t waste much energy advancing a truth that isn’t his. It means that when he tells you he had a good day, you have reason to believe him, and if he says he didn’t like the third paragraph of a story you wrote, it’s because the third paragraph probably wasn’t any good. Most teenagers are inscrutable, but Charlie’s transparency is almost a reflex. When it’s time for you to leave, you’ll know it because he’s pushing you out the door.

There were hugs and a few tears, but it helped knowing what he wanted, so from that point the exit was relatively swift.

Lisa and I were pulling off campus when we saw our son walking across the quad toward his new life. His classmates were all around, but this was the last I’d see him for months. I couldn’t resist.

“Don’t do it,” Lisa said as I rolled down the windows.

I honked the horn. “WE LOVE YOU CHARLIE!” I yelled, before driving off.

Within seconds, a text appeared.

“I felt bad about asking you to leave,” he wrote. “Now I don’t.”