The tin man was on to something

This piece was originally published in September, 2002.  If you or someone you know have a son or daughter heading off to college for the first time, you may find it helpful.

At the end of The Wizard of Oz, as Dorothy is telling her friends goodbye, the Tin Man says something most men would never willingly admit.

He says he knows for sure he has a heart because it’s breaking.

Of course, he wasn’t real. He was tin.

While it’s perfectly acceptable for women to wear their hearts on their sleeves, men rarely do. We’re strong. We’re tough. A man doesn’t acknowledge what’s in his heart, only whatever might be clogging the arteries that feed it.

So it came as a surprise to be reminded on August 30, 2001, the day I delivered our first-born to college, that I have something in common with the Tin Man.

All summer we had been encouraging Ben to get ready, to go to the mall for stuff like sheets, towels and reading lamps. As teenage boys do, he kept putting it off.

Finally, two days before he was to leave, we prevailed. He went shopping, and started packing. Seeing those open duffel bags on his bed, it hit me like a ton of bricks. He wasn’t going off to camp. He was going off to college.

Sure, he would be home for holidays and vacations, but never again would he be a permanent resident under our roof.

I suddenly felt old. And lonely, even though the house would hardly be empty.

My wife, I knew, was feeling the same way, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk with her about it.

Our younger son had soccer practice all that week, so it was decided that I would deliver Ben to college in Michigan. I went outside and sat in the car as he and his mother said their good-byes. I couldn’t watch.

It took us a day to get to our hotel outside Ann Arbor. That night, we went to a restaurant. When I opened my mouth to speak, nothing came out of it. There was a lump in my throat.

The next morning we arrived at the dorm. We made several trips up and down the stairs, carrying computer equipment, duffel bags, a canvas folding chair and his few other possessions.

Boys, I observed, are remarkably easy to move – they bring the bare necessities. Girls bring everything they own.

Once he was situated, we went to Kmart to buy a fan.

Then we had a long, mostly silent lunch – the lump was back.

We stopped at a supermarket to buy some Tide.

Finally, it was time to go.

We hugged.

Ben stepped out of the car and I pulled away quickly. I didn’t want him to see his old man cry.

At a stoplight on the edge of town, I pulled up next to an SUV with Minnesota plates and glanced over at its sole occupant, a middle-aged man. Tears were streaming down his face. We looked at each other and started laughing, two grown men, caught in the act, blubbering like babies.

Still, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself by the time I got home and it took a while to get over it.

I grieved for the Saturdays spent at the office when I should have been taking my son skiing.

I grieved for the school concerts missed because I was traveling.

I grieved for the Knicks games we hadn’t seen, the Scrabble games we never got around to playing, because I was too busy.

In retrospect, I wasn’t grieving for my son who, in phone calls home, reported he was making friends and becoming acclimated.

I was grieving for the father I had always meant to be.

The next week terrorists flew planes into the World Trade Center.

That snapped me out of my self-centered stupor big time.

I realized I was counting sorrows when I should have been counting my blessings. Not only was my son safe and well, he had done exactly what we had raised him to do -- fly away on the wings his mother and I had given him.

I hope all you fathers who are delivering your first-borns to college and who, like the Tin Man, find yourselves unexpectedly overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment, will remember that.

And let me share some reassuring news. Your son or daughter will be fine.

And so, eventually, will you.