Today’s inspiration comes from a story I first shared nearly twenty years ago in my From Where I Sit newspaper column. I hope it offers companionship to those experiencing summer transitions with their college-aged children and loved ones. It’s also the basis of today’s Morning Fuel as:

Laundry Nostalgia

We did laundry for two days.

My daughter Brittany had warned me of her pile of dirty clothes, but we hadn’t counted on the Gatorade explosion in her boyfriend’s luggage. Perhaps the last tug on the car top carrier squashed the plastic jug, launching the pesky lemon-lime powder. It nestled down into the garments and then baked during the seven-hour journey home from Tar Heel country to make a messy, if not fragrant, arrival.

But I didn’t care. I was so happy to see my daughter.

Why?

She’d just finished that year, that treacherous, unpredictable, emotionally charged transition year: the freshman year of college. Morning Fuel, May 22

I welcomed every bit of her that came back—her boyfriend, her eight pairs of jeans, eleven pairs of flip-flops and even that mound of laundry.

I wanted to hug her world.

They say that by the time your child finishes the senior year of high school, you’re ready for them to leave. They are ready to fly the coop and you are ready for them to spread their wings. Nerves fray during college visits, the application process, the proms and endless graduation celebrations.

You often step on each other’s last nerve.

Then the countdown to campus departure begins. The clock and calendar become the heartbeat of your days as you meet deadlines, print checklists and try to figure out how a tiny subset of eighteen years of living will fit into your car.

But it does. And the adventure begins for both parent and child.

They create a new world separate from yours that is filled with all the drama of high school with none of the curfews or house rules. In a fraction of the space of their room at home, they meet a stranger and live with them, unchaperoned. They eat, sleep, wash and brush to their own rhythm.

Sometimes they do laundry.

You wince when you return home to that empty room and pray you have prepared your child for the journey ahead. You struggle with how much to be in touch – enough to show you care, but not so much that you send them into a homesick tailspin.

You do your laundry—and miss theirs.

Meanwhile, roller-coaster phone calls electrify the connection between your worlds:

“I want to come home.” Oh, no.

“I really like my roommate.” Oh, yes.

“He broke up with me!” Oh, no.

“I got an A on my paper!” Oh, yes.

“I dropped a class.” Oh, no.

“I met a cute boy.” Oh, yes.

“I am in the infirmary.” Oh, no.

“I finished my exams.” Oh, yes.

“Can I throw away what won’t fit in the car?” Oh, no.

“Cute boy and laundry are coming home with me.” Oh, my. Oh, yes!

They re-enter your world with the remnants of theirs. They are the same, but yet so very different.

Your heart smiles at their growth and your growth, too.

And together, you do laundry.

P.S. I’m honored to be featured in Bedside Reading’s upcoming 8th season of their summer reading program, just in time for the Memorial Day celebration of books in The Hamptons.