I’ve been memorizing his face for weeks — this man-child of mine. In the shuffle to buy textbooks and bedding and the 5,000 other things necessary to set up his “new home” at college, THIS home begins to feel empty yet again. Tears flow without warning and I realize that it is indeed possible to feel happy and devastated at the very same time.

He’s worked so hard, he’s got big plans and dreams, and I’m crazy proud. And still I feel as if my heart is being ripped out of my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t look at his face, but I can’t look away either. I don’t want to fall asleep because sleep robs me of the last precious minutes until I say goodbye.

Goodbye to dirty laundry strewn on the floor of his room. To “did you remembers” and “don’t forgets.” Goodbye to curfews and debates. To late-night talks and half-listened-to advice.

And I play the “last time” game that comes with each of my husband’s pre-deployments, only now with my firstborn son. This is the last time I’ll wake you up for school, the last time we’ll have a school-night dinner together, the last time you’ll negotiate your social plans with me….

I worry. Have I done enough? Made him tough but tender? Self-reliant but able to depend upon others? Trustworthy and trusting? Ready to “be a man”? If I’ve done my job right, while I’ll always be Mom, I’ll have worked myself out of this job. And I’ve loved this gig — every second of these 17 years that I’ve had the honor and gift of raising this amazing child.

I wake him up for the last time as a child living under this roof. We pack the car full of his stuff. He sits in what should be “my seat” if Daddy were home and we fill the drive to school with jokes and sarcasm but sneak sad looks at each other when we think the other isn’t looking. Too soon we’ve arrived, dragged the contents of his room up 5 bazillions stairs and into a tiny space that’s filled to capacity with the accumulated possessions of three boys. And too soon, we’re in the parking lot saying our goodbyes. My 6-foot-tall baby is in my arms again and I can’t hold on tightly enough. I will myself to finally let go and manage a “you’ve got this” before the tears again take over. He’s crying too and for some strange reason — this gives me hope. I’ll be missed too.

The drive home is a blur of tears and before I realize it, I’m back home to three kids, two dogs, two cats, four African dwarf frogs and a beta fish. Even with other loved ones around, the house feels so incredibly, painfully empty. This life requires too many goodbyes.