Courtesy of Cristine Struble
My son is about to embark on a journey that will dramatically change our relationship, and I am trying to be OK with it.
He will leave my house, where he has lived since he was a kid, and become a Cadet Candidate at West Point. The first step in that journey is a six-week Cadet Basic Training before the academic year begins.
During those six weeks, he will not have any access to his cellphone. To better appreciate the gravity of the journey and to understand what he can be at West Point, distractions are not allowed. And phones are the ultimate distraction.
For the first time, I won't be able to hear my son's voice. We will only be able to communicate via letter.
In our house, the mailbox does not get emptied every day. Usually, it is filled with superfluous paper that gets discarded into the recycling bin. No anticipation or excitement is hiding in that paper pile.
But now, the squeaking mailbox door will cause me to jump faster than my younger self, sprinting to catch the ice cream truck driving down the street. Tucked under another advertisement for window replacement could be a treasured envelope with a West Point return address.
To be honest, I'm not expecting much from his letters. I am not naïve to think that my son will be prolific. Hopefully, there will be at least one envelope hiding under the monthly Costco coupons, giving me a small glimpse at his new life. It will not be framed or tucked into the baby scrapbook. But, it will be a moment to reflect, in solitude, about where we have been and where we are going.
While my son will rarely have a moment to himself, I will relish in the moment by reading his words. Feeling that paper in my hand, wiping away a potential tear, and knowing that he is fulfilling his calling to serve strengthens my resolve that I prepared him well for his journey.
As I think about the words that I might write to my son as he faces long days of training, learns to rely on strangers, and separates from the lifestyle he has known, my mind spins.
A mom is meant to be supportive, kiss away her little boy's booboo, or otherwise make it better. Those days are over. He is in charge, and I'm trying not to helicopter parent and save the day.
My words on the page should hopefully make him smile, not miss home too much, and otherwise provide a moment of respite from the day. Those letters will be my daily intention to hold him close while he is far away.
I understand that he may never get a chance to respond to my carefully thought-out letters, and I am trying to be OK with that.
West Point is my son's path, not mine. My role is to cheer on his accomplishments, beam with pride, and hide my crying for those private moments when no one is watching.
As I write to my son this summer, I write these words to myself. It is my duty to let my son start this journey untethered. It is my honor to have watched him flourish, and I know that there is a country of men and women supporting him in this life of service.
