I was not delivered into this world into defeat,
nor does failure course through my veins.
I am not a sheep waiting to be
prodded by my shepherd.
I am a lion
and I refuse to talk, to walk, to sleep
with the sheep.
The slaughterhouse of failure
is not my destiny
-Og Mandino
What do you say to your kid leaving for college? Good question.
If you’re sending your son or daughter off to college for the first time in a few weeks, you may feel fine. And your kid feels fine. You go shopping with him for a mini-fridge, and the price is fine. You move her into her dorm room, put up her twinkle lights, and they look fine. You take him out to lunch before you leave, and your salad is fine, and his chicken fingers are fine. And maybe your child already knows his roommate, and they get along fine. Maybe she doesn’t know anyone on campus yet, but she seems fine.
And it might be fine. But at some point, maybe you’ll be standing in your kitchen, or driving to work, or settling in at night for bed, and it won’t feel fine. Because it feels wrong. Unnatural. You can’t stop thinking about your kid, alone and unsupervised, and your brain goes into overdrive.
Is she lonely? Hungry? Nervous? What if he can’t find his way around? What if he oversleeps? What if he’s depressed but afraid to tell me? What if she’s overwhelmed? Scared shitless? What if he gets the flu and has no one to bring him juice and soup and comic books? What if she can’t get the WIFI going?
What if, what if, what if…
This happened to me, three times. The third time was the easiest of the three. The last kid is always the easiest, because they’re so darn independent. This was how my conversation went with my youngest when we were done moving his stuff into his dorm room and making his bed.
Me: Well…I guess that’s it.
Tommy: Yep.
Me: Do you want help with anything else?
Tommy: No, I think I’m good.
Me: Do you want me to hang up your clothes?
Tommy: No, Mom, it’s ok.
Me: Do you want to go get lunch?
Tommy: I just ate on the way here, remember?
Me: Oh yeah. But what will you do for dinner?
Tommy: I’ll figure it out.
Me: Ok. There’s a dining hall across the way…
Tommy: Mom.
Me: Ok, ok. Well, I guess I’ll go. Who will you eat with?
Tommy: Mom.
Me: Don’t forget that you can use your ID to work the washers and dryers.
Tommy: Mom, I know.
Me: And remember to leave your door open, so that when the other kids move in later they’ll pop their heads in to say hi. That’s how you make friends.
Tommy: MOM.
Me: I know, ok, ok. Well, I guess I’ll be going….(I sit down on his bed)
Tommy: Mom. Go. It’s going to be fine.
Me: Of course it is. Don’t forget to ask your RA about the WIFI…
Tommy: MOM!!
Me: Ok, I’m going now! Good luck (Hug).
Tommy: Thanks. And don’t worry, everything is fine.
Me: Of course it is.
And it will be fine. In a few weeks, it will no longer seem unnatural or wrong that they’re gone. Your kid will come through it like a trooper, and will figure everything out. And he’ll make friends, more friends than you can imagine.
Until then, if you want to send your child off with something other than a lecture, bed risers and cash, give him a copy of this book. I re-read this book once a year, and every human being on Earth should get a copy of it when he’s born. Enough with Oh, the Places You’ll Go. Give your kid a copy of Og Mandino’s The Greatest Salesman in the World, and let him take advantage of the sage advice contained in 100 pages:
Guide me in my venture, for this day I go out into the world alone, and without your hand I might wander from the path which leads to success and happiness.
Guide me so that I may acquire ability equal to my opportunities.
Teach me how to hunt with words and prosper with love.
Help me to remain humble through obstacles and failures, yet not hide from my eyes the prize that will come with victory.
Confront me with fears that will temper my spirit, yet endow me with courage to laugh at my misgivings.
Give me sufficient days to reach my goals, yet help me to live this day as though it be my last.
Guide me in my words yet silence me from gossip.
Discipline me in the habit of trying and trying again.
Bathe me in good habits that the bad ones might drown, yet grant me compassion for weaknesses in others
And let me become all you planned for me when I was born.
And remember. They WILL be fine.
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