For parents, letting go is a labor of love

The Star Tribune's "Breaking Away" series (Aug. 26-30) reminded me of my recent experiences with my children heading off to college and into adulthood -- a process remarkably akin to giving birth.

When my son was 17, he went on his first big trip alone to Washington, D.C. As I stood back to watch him pass through the security gate (literally and figuratively), I was overcome by a tremendous physical and emotional pull -- startling, yet strangely familiar. Thought it lasted only a moment, I recognized it as the faint memory of intense pain, long forgotten -- the moment I gave birth.

Fast-forward a few years later, when my son (and later my daughter) left home for freshman year. As I reflected on the rapid passage of time and the impending empty nest, I again recalled that gravitational ache from within.

Parenting is an 18-year process of letting go in small ways: Releasing the hand of a toddler. Helping a new kindergartener board the bus. Relinquishing the car keys to an eager teen.

But I believe letting go when a child leaves home trumps all those cherished milestones, save one: when your baby left the womb. Both involve a finite period of gestation, filled with growing anticipation, followed by a period of labor, culminating in intense pain -- and the powerful realization that life will never be the same.

Before we got pregnant, my husband and I pondered the big questions. Are we ready? Could we afford it? Preparing for the birth of an adult involves similar ... preconceptions. Like first-time parents, we were clueless about what to expect.

But in the blink of any eye, "a baby on the way" becomes "our baby on her way," leaving me pregnant with anticipation of this amazing adult-in-development. On the outside, life continues as normal. But on the inside, I feel a little sick when I wake up in the morning.

Something safe (a nearby school)? A legacy (our alma mater)? A stretch school with a big reputation (and price tag)? In the end, our emerging adults select what fits them best -- evidence their transformation is already underway.

Once the school name is revealed, it is time to celebrate! Family and friends shower us with gifts -- and unsolicited advice. This time, instead of endorsing cloth diapers vs. disposables, they opine about whether our neo-adult should rush a sorority, preselect a roommate, buy season football tickets, go abroad. I feel a rush of emotions -- pride, excitement, worry, nostalgia. Where did the time go? When did I get so old?

With just weeks until the delivery to college, it is time to feather the new nest, even as we empty our own. Combing Target for color-coded bedding and bins, I hurry along my daughter, who carefully considers each item, and wryly remember my son, who wanted to know how long this tedious shopping trip was going to take. Across from College Stuff, I spy Infants -- such irony that a dorm room (unlike a nursery) does not require a changing table, despite all the changing going on.

As packing begins in earnest, I suddenly find myself aware of things I was too distracted to notice during those busy years of raising children. Like how a bird's nest has appeared in a corner of our deck, and in it a mother bird sits motionless atop her eggs. I am transfixed by her dedication to her task and how she knows something I have only recently discovered: that a mother's woefully brief job is to warm and feed and nurture her young -- then teach them to fly.

It is late August (remarkably close to Labor Day), and the moment of excitement and dread has arrived. Just like our trip to the hospital long ago, we head off nervously to a tiny room down a narrow hall in a tall building -- a place we've never been, but will never forget.

And then we push.

As we drive away, I recall the nurse, who showed me how to hold my newborn so many years ago. "Cradle the head," she says, "Bend your arm, hold tight." I wonder where that nurse is now. I wonder if she could show me how to let go.

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