She’ll Be Fine if She Majors in Tupperware

You hear stories about this, how kids grow up and you have to cart them off to college. You think it won’t happen to you.

“I’m too young,” you think. “There’s plenty of time.”

But then it happens. Toddlers become teenagers. Teenagers become college kids. No, that’s not a knife twisting in your ever-growing gut. It’s just one of your kids leaving home, that’s all.

“I’m putting some good music on now,” my lovely and patient older daughter says as we zoom across the interstate.

Let’s begin, as John Cheever liked to, at the beginning. We’re on this bittersweet road trip to college. A father and daughter driving down the interstate and growing closer just as we’re about to go our separate ways.

“Who’s this?” I ask as she pushes a new CD into the player.

“This is Train,” she says.

“John Coltrane?”

“No, Train,” she says.

*

Now that she’s back in the atmosphere

With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey

She acts like summer and walks like rain

Reminds me that there’s time to change, hey, hey.

*

OK, so it’s not Cole Porter. Dylan, either. But it’s not so bad. Better than rap. Your dog’s intestinal noises are better than rap.

In fact, the song by Train is kind of catchy. After a few strains, my older daughter begins to sing along.

*

Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star

One without a permanent scar

And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there.

*

I’m sure there are many things we will miss about each other, my daughter and I. She’ll miss my snoring from two rooms away and the way I burn pork chops on the grill.

Me? I’ll miss the way she clears her throat before she answers the phone. Her late-night laugh. Her efforts to make me into a better parent. Everything.

I may even miss her messy room. Think how many times you’ve complained about your kid’s messy room, then actually ended up missing the mess when she went off to college. Not me. Not one bit.

“You know, I don’t think I’m going to miss you that much,” I tease.

“Why?”

“Because you sing awful,” I tell her.

We drive south down the Golden State Freeway, past the other colleges that her friends are attending--closer colleges, that smell of juniper trees and diesel.

She tells me she was accepted at one of them. A very good school. But she never bothered to tell us.

“Anything else you haven’t told me?” I ask.

“In my whole life or just about college?”

“Your whole life,” I say.

“No,” she says.

In the trunk and back seat, there are 300 bucks worth of items my daughter doesn’t really need. Toilet brushes and can openers. Tupperware containers and cough syrup.

It’s not really for her. It’s for her mother. Her mother needs to know her little girl has all this stuff, even if she never uses it.

“Look at all those grapes,” I say as we head out of Orange County.

Off to the right, there is acre after acre of vineyards. Used to be, subdivisions were what you saw springing up all over the place as you traveled California. Now it’s vineyards. Eventually, California will be one long vineyard, from the desert to the sea.

“Sure could go for some grape juice right now,” I say.

“Why don’t you put in another CD,” my daughter says.

As she drives, I browse her CD collection. There is Weezer and Traffic. But there are also the Beatles and Steve Miller.

“Oh, my God,” I say.

“What?”

“Somebody has put real music in your CD case,” I say.

“Those are mine,” she says.

“Get out,” I say.

“Really, Dad,” she says.

You think your kid is prepared for college, but you never really know. You’ve taught her a lot. How to save a buck. How to tie a fish hook. Other stuff too. Little boys pretty much raise themselves. With little girls, your job is never really done.

“Here’s what you need to know for college,” you tell her.

“Oh, geeesh,” she sighs.

“No, listen,” you say.

So I give her my 1970s view of how to cope with college. I tell her that in any philosophy or history class, she can ensure at least a C grade by asking: “What about John Stuart Mills’ view of free will? Isn’t that why all governments ultimately fail?” And in almost any sort of science course, you say, in a world-weary way: “Einstein’s theories? Tip of the iceberg.”

I explain to her that those two observations got me to where I am now, riding along an interstate with her in a dusty Civic, cursing the prices of every gas station we pass and pining for music from 30 years ago.

“Thanks, Dad,” she says. “I’ll remember all that.”

“Good, because it’s a hot, cruel world out there,” I say.

“Dad, while I’m gone, could you feed my frog?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say.

She’s been preparing for college for 10 years now, maybe longer. In the eighth grade, she started packing. By 10th grade, she began to load the car. Now at 18, she’s preparing to say goodbye for good. As if there’s ever anything good about a goodbye.

“And you can delete my screen name on AOL,” she says.

“So you’re really going?” I ask.

“Yes, Daddy, I’m really going.”

This time, I think she means it.

*

Next week: Moving into a dorm.