University blues: a mother’s farewell
WHEN YOUR c h i l d i s b o r n , i t seems like the natural order of events: n u r s e r y, primary school, secondary school, sixth form and then on to university. Leaving your child for the first time at nursery is torture, but you know you’ll be back in only a few hours to scoop them up and shower them with love — and that’s what gets you through those hours that feel like days. At primary school, you take them through the gates and into the playground, where they run off to theirfriendswithoutevenaquickglance back at you. With secondary school, you might as well not even be there and, comesixthform,theymayhavesiblings to drive them.
But university is a whole new playing field for both child and parent. Once the dust has settled, the university has beenallocated,thewholeof Ikeabought and bags packed, it suddenly dawns on you that this is it. Your child is no longer going to be at home. Doors no longer slammed, arguments no longer had, cuddles no longer given. And while the thought of their room being tidy for more than an hour gives you joy, the thought of their absence starts to ache atyourheartandno-onetalksaboutthis.
Drivingaway,havingdroppedLauren off at Leeds University and looking into the rear-view mirror as I tried to keep it together,wasthemostexcruciatingpain I’ve ever felt (yes, I am a drama queen) but really, leaving your child at university, coupled with Covid-19, is just horrid.
Butholdthatthought.Let’srecap.Lauren is part of that cohort that will be forever known as the Covid Year. No exams, no true results. And let’s not even get started on the farce that was the run-up toresultsdayandeventheweeksfollowing results day…
I am happy t o report that on results day we logged on to Ucas at 8am and saw straight away that Lauren had been accepted by her first choice, Leeds University, to study liberal arts. You can imagine thecheersandwhoopsof relief andhappiness, followed by a moment of “did I reallyreadthatcorrectly?”—andfinding she’d got A*AA was the icing on the cake.
Next was the shopping. Armed with thelistof universityessentials,wevisited supermarkets, Ikea, homeware shops,
Amazonandotherinternetstorestopurchase EVERYTHING. Do not fear, Lauren and her friends will be armed for every eventuality, because it’s not as if they are living in a city centre and could pop to a shop to buy something or even order online — no, we as parents (or should I say, as Jewish mothers) need to make sure they have the most comfortable bed, the most pillows, the most stationery, toiletries,cacti(becausenouniroomcould be complete without a cactus or five!), alcohol(becauseallof asuddenmy rules about not drinking go out the window). And what about food? A click-and-collect was booked, to include everything I have in my own cupboards (and more).
The excitement builds. The grandparents pop over for one last cuddle and hand over money or vouchers for coffee establishments. The last supper is made and we sit around the table regaling each other with anecdotes of Lauren’s childhood. In the age of Covid you can no longer just turn up at uni, you have to book your time slot. Rumours were flying around that Leeds University was banningparentsfrom hallsof residenceand this made me so upset. However, after the three-hour drive up the M1 to Leeds, listening to Wham! (of course) and stopping for coffee, we made it and even got a parking space right outside Lauren’snewhomeandIwas abletounpack,hangher clothes and place her alcohol neatly on her shelves alongside the cacti and a picture of us.
But then the t i m e c a m e when I had to say goodbye—and even as I write, I tear up. Her little face imploring me not to go… not sure what the next hour, day, week or month will hold.
Covid has stopped any normality of student life. Freshers’ week on hold, Friday-night dinners at Chabad a thing of the past, societies online, being taught online, interaction with classmates limited, 10pm curfews. This is not what they envisagedandit’sashame,arealshame.
I must admit, I cried. I cried on the way home. I cried when I got home. I cried the next day and for most of the next week. But when you get that happy callfromyourchildsayingthey’vemade new friends; that they’ve been out and about; that everything is slowly falling into place, then you cry tears of joy and life starts to get back on track.
Then boom — Covid hits once again. Out of 11 flat mates in Lauren’s corridor, five have so far got Covid (thankfully all mild)butthathasmeantthatallof them have had to isolate in tiny spaces with little or no contact. Running out of food, toiletries, clean clothes and sheets — and once again as a parent you worry.
But Lauren has struck gold with her roommates, as one parent sent a Waitrose shop to cover them for at least the nextmonth,anothersentbrowniesand cupcakes, another 12 bottles of wine and one even sent a table tennis table. What did I send? What every good Jewishmotherwouldsend—cleanknickers!
Covid has thrown a huge curve ball to thesekidsbutit’sanewchapterandone that will offer new friends, new memories and a whole lot of laughs. For me, it brings tears of both happiness and sadness — but more of happiness.
Driving away was the most excruciating pain I have ever felt’