If You’re Reading This, You’re Me. Hi.
It’s April 30th. My son’s graduation party is in three days. There are four collage boards leaned against my dining room wall and not a single photo glued to any of them. I have approximately 63,789 photos of Drew on my phone and the inability to commit to a single one of them is, I’m now realizing, not actually about photo selection. It’s about the fact that in 14 weeks I’m going to drive him two hours away and leave him at college.
And here’s the thing nobody warns you about. The summer before your kid leaves is not actually a summer. It is a slow-motion countdown disguised as a calendar. Every grocery run is potentially a Last Grocery Run. Every breakfast on a Tuesday is potentially a Last Tuesday Breakfast. You will go to bed at night doing math on how many Sundays are left and you will spiral. I have spiraled. I am still spiraling. If you’re reading this, you’re me. And I’m so glad we found each other.
I made this list for two reasons. One, because I needed it for myself. The unstructured panic of “we have to do EVERYTHING before August” is paralyzing and structure helps. Two, because I figured if I needed it, some other mom is sitting in her dining room next to her unfinished collage boards needing it too.
Forty ideas. Some big. Some small. Some you’ll do this weekend. Some you’ll save for July. Some won’t fit your kid and you’ll skip them, and that’s fine. The point isn’t to do all 40. The point is to stop scrolling Pinterest at 11 PM and actually do ONE.
Pour the coffee. Or the wine. Hold my hand. Let’s go.
The Conversations You Won’t Regret Having
1. Tell him your favorite memory of him as a kid.
Pick one. The specific one. The time he was four and tried to feed the dog his cereal. The time he came home from kindergarten with a story about a boy named Henry. The night he fell asleep on you during a movie and you didn’t move for two hours. Tell him out loud. He’ll roll his eyes. He’ll also remember it forever.
2. Ask him what he’s nervous about. Then don’t fix it.
This is the hardest one, honestly. Our entire job for 18 years has been fixing things. The scraped knee. The math homework. The friendship drama. Ask him what he’s scared about going to college and then sit on your hands. Don’t problem-solve. Don’t reassure. Just say, “yeah, that makes sense.” Watch what happens. He’ll tell you more.
3. Tell him the one thing about being an adult you wish someone had told you.
Mine is that nobody actually knows what they’re doing. Yours might be different. Maybe it’s about money. Or how to recover from a bad day. Or what to do when you fail. Pick one piece of grown-up wisdom that nobody handed you and hand it to him. He’ll act like he didn’t hear you. He heard you.
4. Apologize for something specific you’ve never apologized for.
Not a sweeping “I’m sorry for any time I let you down.” Those are useless. Pick a specific moment. A thing you said when you were too tired. A time you got it wrong. Own it. “I’m sorry I yelled at you about the dishwasher in 9th grade. That wasn’t your fault.” He’ll remember the specifics. He always has.
5. Tell him what you’re proud of about WHO he is, not what he’s done.
Not the grades. Not the awards. Not the team he made. The way he is with little kids. The way he makes his friends laugh. The fact that he holds doors for people without thinking about it. Tell him you see those things. Most kids only ever hear what they accomplished. Tell him who he IS.
6. Have the “if something happens” conversation.
Not morbid, just practical. What does he do if he runs out of money? If he gets sick? Does he have the family doctor’s number saved? What happens if a roommate situation goes sideways? Walk through it like a fire drill. Boring. Necessary. He’ll thank you in October.
Adventures, Big And Small
7. Take a road trip. Even just an hour away.
Pack snacks. Pick a playlist. Drive somewhere you’ve never been together. The whole point is the car. Conversations that happen at 65 mph staring at a windshield are conversations that don’t happen anywhere else. He’ll talk to you in a car in ways he won’t talk to you across a kitchen table. I don’t make the rules.
8. Walk his college campus together one more time before move-in.
Even if you’ve already toured it. Even if you’ve already done admitted students day. Go again. Walk the dorm building. Find the dining hall. Drive past the library. Eat lunch in the town. The point isn’t logistics. The point is both of you seeing the place that’s about to hold him next, together, while it still feels like a “we” thing.
9. Take him to your favorite restaurant from when he was little.
Wherever it was. The diner you used to go to after T-ball. The pizza place near the old house. Whatever location holds 50 small memories. Take him. Order what you used to order. It will feel weirdly emotional in a way you weren’t prepared for. Bring tissues.
10. Go to a concert. HIS music, not yours.
Whatever artist he’s been listening to in the car for two years. Buy two tickets. Don’t complain about the prices. Don’t complain about the volume. Stand next to him in a crowd of teenagers and watch him be 18 and happy. You will think about that night for the next ten years.
11. Spend a whole day outdoors with no agenda.
The lake. A state park. A beach if you’ve got one. The pool, even. The point is being outside, side by side, for a whole day, with no plan. Phones in the bag. Books optional. Just hours of being in the same place at the same speed. We don’t really do that anymore. Bring it back.
12. Have a “yes day.” He picks. You go.
Within reason. (No, you are not buying him a motorcycle.) But for one day, let him plan the whole thing. Breakfast, lunch, what you do, where you eat dinner. Watch him be in charge. It’s a sneak preview of who he’s about to become. Heartbreaking. Also kind of cool.
13. The grocery store run plus a quick lunch.
This sounds like nothing. It is not nothing. The boring errand-and-lunch combo is the most underrated mother-son activity on earth. Casual. Low pressure. Plenty of room for him to mention something he’s been thinking about while you’re in the produce aisle. Some of my favorite conversations with my own mom happened next to a pyramid of grapefruits.
Keepsakes And Things To Hold Onto
14. Write him a letter to open in his dorm room.
Sit down with paper. Tell him everything. Your favorite memory. Your hopes. Your fears. The thing you’d say if you were brave. Seal it. Slip it into his suitcase the day you drop him off. He will read it alone, on a twin bed, in a room he doesn’t know yet. Trust me on this one.
15. Make a “Mom’s Recipes” notebook.
Handwritten. Not printed. Pick the 15 to 20 recipes he actually loves. Your meatballs. Your chili. The chicken thing he asks for on his birthday. Write them out by hand with notes in the margins. (“Don’t burn the garlic.” “I always add extra cheese.”) It will quietly become his most prized possession by sophomore year.
16. Take a photo on the front porch in the same spot you’ve taken them in for years.
You know the one. First day of kindergarten. First day of every school year since. Take one more. Graduation week, or the morning of move-in. He will groan. Take it anyway. Frame it next to the kindergarten one. Cry on a regular Wednesday for the rest of your life. Worth it.
17. Record a video of his voice answering a few questions.
Not a fancy interview. Just hand him a phone and ask him a few things. What’s your favorite memory of childhood? What advice would you give your younger self? What’s something true about you nobody knows? Save the video forever. There will come a day when his voice sounds different and you’ll be grateful you have this one.
18. Frame something of his old work for his dorm.
A piece of art from second grade. A school paper he was proud of. A photo from middle school he never knew you saved. Frame it. Wrap it. Put it in his packing pile. He’ll act mortified. He will also hang it on his dorm wall and you know it.
19. Make a memory jar from family and friends.
Email or text everyone who’s known him. Aunts, grandparents, his coach, his best friend’s mom. Ask each one for a favorite memory. Print them. Fold them. Drop them in a mason jar with a ribbon. Give it to him at his graduation party or on move-in day. He will read every single one. So will you.
20. Print actual physical photos for an album he can take to college.
Not on his phone. Photos. On photo paper. Walgreens does it for under thirty cents a print. Pull 30 from across his life and put them in a small album. Slip it into his suitcase. Watch his roommates be jealous of the boy whose mom did this for him. Pure mom flex.
Life Skills To Send Him Off With
21. Teach him laundry. For real this time.
I am sorry to report that “I showed him when he was 12” does not count. Walk through it again. Whites and darks. The thing about the new red shirt. The mysteries of the dryer settings. How much detergent is too much. Make him do a load while you watch. He’ll roll his eyes. He’ll also call you in October about a stain, and you will be smug.
22. Teach him five actual meals.
Eggs (scrambled, fried, in a sandwich). Pasta with a real sauce, not just butter. A basic stir-fry. Grilled cheese with tomato soup. A sheet-pan chicken-and-veggies. That’s it. Five. Enough to keep him alive. Enough to impress someone in two years. Cooking together is also the kind of thing where conversations happen sideways. Bonus points.
23. Walk him through a real budget.
How much is in his account. What’s coming in (job, allowance, financial aid). What’s going out (food, gas, the random stuff). How to track it. How to NOT spend $400 at restaurants in a single weekend. Pull up a real Google Sheet. Do it together. He’ll pretend to be uninterested. He’ll thank you in November when his roommate is broke and he isn’t.
24. Show him how to make a doctor’s appointment and refill a prescription.
Genuinely. Most 18-year-olds have never made a single medical appointment for themselves. Walk him through it. Where the campus health clinic is. How to call. How insurance works (or sort of works). How to refill a prescription if he takes one. Boring. Critical. Future-you is grateful.
25. Teach him to write a professional email.
To a professor. To a boss. To an advisor. The structure: a subject line that actually says something, a greeting that uses their name, a brief body, a clear ask, a polite closing, his actual full name. He has spent four years texting in lowercase. This is a different language. Teach it before September.
26. Basic car stuff.
Even if he’s not taking a car. Gas. Oil check. Tire pressure. What the warning lights mean. How to jump a battery. How to put on a spare. He will need at least two of these things in his first six months. I promise you.
27. How to mend a button and use iron-on hem tape.
Five minutes. One needle. One spool of thread. One roll of hem tape. He’ll never sew anything else in his life. But the day he loses a button on his nice shirt before something important, he’ll think “wait, mom showed me this once,” and his world will not crumble. That’s the whole goal.
Last Week Rituals
28. One final family dinner with all his favorites.
Whatever HIS favorites are. Not yours. Not what’s easy. Make the actual things he loves, even if it’s three different proteins and a weird side. Set the table nicely. Light a candle if you do candles. Eat slowly. Take a picture. This is the last family dinner before everything is different. Make it count.
29. Take a “before I leave” photo on the porch.
Different from the graduation photo. This is move-in week. Backpack on his shoulder. Car packed in the driveway. Take the photo. Frame it next to his kindergarten “first day” photo on a shelf where you can see them both. Watch them age side by side for the rest of his life.
30. Give him a small token for his wallet.
A laminated photo of the two of you. A penny from his birth year. A folded note that says one sentence. Tiny. Carryable. He won’t tell you he has it. He’ll have it. When he’s overwhelmed in October, he’ll touch his wallet and remember he has somewhere to come home to.
31. Help him pack. Slowly. Not the night before.
Start a week out. Make a list. Lay things out on the bed. Talk about what’s actually needed. Pack the meaningful stuff first. The framed art, the photo album, the letter, the recipe book. Then the practical stuff. The slow pack creates time for things to come up. Things will come up.
32. The drive to drop him off. Let it be quiet sometimes.
Don’t fill every silence with chatter. Don’t quiz him on what he packed. Don’t hand him a binder of life advice in the passenger seat. Some of the drive should be loud and full of music and snacks. Some of it should be quiet, both of you looking out the window, both of you knowing exactly what’s happening and not needing to say it.
33. Don’t rush the goodbye in the parking lot.
This is the one. Don’t make it quick because it hurts. Don’t pretend you’re “fine” to make it easier on him. Hug him a long time. Tell him you love him. Tell him you’re proud of him. Cry if you cry. Get back in the car. Drive away. Pull over half a mile down the road and lose it. That’s the assignment. That’s the whole thing.
The Ordinary Moments That Are Actually The Whole Thing
34. Sit on the couch and watch his show with him.
Even if it’s terrible. Even if you don’t understand who anyone is. Don’t critique. Don’t ask 47 questions about the plot. Just sit there. Laugh when he laughs. The TV isn’t the point. Sitting on the same couch is the point. Five years from now you will not remember the show. You’ll remember the couch.
35. Make him breakfast on a random Tuesday.
Not a special occasion. A Tuesday. Make pancakes. Or eggs. Or French toast. Or whatever he liked when he was nine. Set it on the table. Eat with him. Don’t make a big deal. Don’t post about it. The whole point is that it’s an ordinary morning. Those are the ones that ache later.
36. Drive him somewhere he’s perfectly capable of driving himself.
He’ll think it’s weird. Do it anyway. Twelve minutes in the car is the most underrated mom resource on earth. He’ll say more in those twelve minutes than he’ll say across three full days at home. Take the long way. Don’t tell him you took the long way.
37. Let him sleep until noon and don’t wake him.
Resist the productive-mom voice in your head telling you he should be “doing something with his summer.” He is. He’s sleeping in the room he won’t be sleeping in three months from now. That is not nothing. Let him. Have your coffee in peace. The day will start when it starts.
38. Cook dinner together. No phones at the table.
Pasta. Tacos. A grilled cheese, even. Pick something that requires the two of you to be in the kitchen for 30 minutes. Phones away. Music on. Actual conversation. Maybe terrible. Maybe perfect. Definitely something you’ll wish you had more of in September.
39. Take a walk after dinner. No agenda.
Around the block. Around the neighborhood. With the dog or without. Don’t put on a podcast. Don’t make it “exercise.” Just walk and talk, or walk and not-talk. The pace of a walk creates a different kind of conversation than any other pace. He’ll mention something at minute eight that he wasn’t going to mention at all.
40. Sit in his room sometimes. Just because.
Not when he’s there. After he’s gone to a friend’s house, or work, or out for the night. Sit on the edge of his unmade bed. Look at the posters. The trophies. The clothes on the floor. Take it in. The room doesn’t stay this room. Memorize it now while it’s still his.
OK So About Those Collage Boards.
It’s still April 30th. The collage boards are still leaning against my dining room wall. The party is still in three days. I still haven’t picked the photos.
But I’m going to. And so are you. Because here’s what I figured out somewhere around idea number 23 of writing this list. The collage boards aren’t really about the photos. They never were. They’re about the fact that I have to admit, out loud, in glue and cardstock, in front of family and friends and a punch bowl, that this part is over. That my son is grown. That the next chapter starts in 14 weeks.
And that’s the point of every single thing on this list, too. None of these 40 ideas are really about the activity. They’re about saying yes to one more car ride. One more breakfast. One more concert. One more long hug in a parking lot. They’re about not letting the summer slip by in a blur of “we’ll do that next weekend” when there are only so many weekends left.
So pick one. Just one. Today. Don’t make a master plan. Don’t add it to the family calendar. Don’t overthink it. Just text him right now and say “hey, let’s grab lunch this week, just us.” That’s it. That’s the whole thing.
And then come back tomorrow and pick another one.
We’ve got this. Both of us. I’ll save you a seat in the parking lot.