When I was eighteen years old, I moved 36 miles from Farmington Hills to Mary Markley Hall in Ann Arbor. Given the short drive, we moved in leisurely over a few days — first building the loft and then bringing my stuff so that on the last day my mom merely had to drive me up with my backpack, make the turn on Washington Heights, and let me jump out of the car. As we turned onto Catherine, WCSX offered up Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. My mother and I did our best to delay the waterworks, but in the end we were both powerless against the voice of Stevie Nicks.

Well, I've been 'fraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm gettin' older, too

Twenty-nine years later, I packed up a rented minivan to drive my son 837 miles to Auburn University in Auburn, Alabama. Unlike my move, where I was moving to my mother’s alma mater — replete with faded photos of me toddling on the Diag — this was a brand-new adventure. No one in my son’s lineage had ever lived south of the Mason-Dixon line. Besides a few East Coast sojourns by my husband and me and some Army postings of his great-grandfathers, I am not sure any of his ancestors have actually lived outside of Michigan since our families made their way to this side of the Atlantic. But from the moment we first set foot on Auburn’s campus back in January, I knew that Brady’s journey had led him to this place. And I was filled with pride that he was brave enough to take that journey.

Mama told me when I was young
"Come sit beside me, my only son
And listen closely to what I say
And if you do this it'll help you
Some sunny day"

My son packed so little for college that we probably could have flown down to Atlanta and driven 90 minute to Auburn, rather than the 13+ hour drive. But I would not be dissuaded from one more road trip and forced time in the car, even if he had on his headphones and my husband and I were listening to a mix of Southern rock, country and rap. Ever searching for the perfect meal, somewhere south of Lexington we pulled off to a BBQ joint down in what I believe is a holler next to a picturesque river, where a local band was playing the perfect hillbilly music to accompany some of the best barbecue I have ever had. As we started going over the itinerary for the next day — a stop in Atlanta to see my high school friend, who would now have the duty of being the person in charge of bailing my son out of jail as needed — my husband started to get worried about what time we would arrive in Auburn and the Atlanta-area traffic and other logistics. My son paused us. “Why are we in a hurry?”

Oh, take your time, don't live too fast
Troubles will come and they will pass
You'll find a woman, yeah, and you'll find love
And don't forget son there is someone up above

The next day, as we approached what we would later discover was Rocky Top, Tennessee, it was time to stop for lunch. There were many fast food options to choose from, including a chicken restaurant called Zaxby’s that I had never heard of, but Brady opted for Waffle House. My obsession with Waffle House is well known in my family. I took this as a teenage boy’s way of saying “I love you” to his mother, if not a clue that he was worried about her teetering on the brink of a breakdown at the departure of her first-born.

While waiting for an unreasonably long time for some hash browns, waffles, eggs, and grits, we imparted our last bits collegiate of wisdom to our son. Keep your door open (both physically and metaphorically) because you never know who will enter your life. That was the advice I gave while looking across the table back and forth between my husband, who I had met as an 18-year-old eastside Catholic Republican I was never supposed to fall in love with, and my 18-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Jewfroed son — at the same time a perfect mix of both of us and entirely his own person. As I finished, Simple Man came over the speaker, and my husband wisely deferred his own advice to instead rely on the wisdom of these kings of Southern rock.

Forget your lust for the rich man's gold
All that you need is in your soul
And you can do this, oh, baby, if you try
All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied

That night, as we arrived in Auburn, it turned out I had accidentally booked two hotel rooms for the three of us. I immediately canceled one, not willing to give up a moment of time together in the waning hours of the in-person part of parenting. We opted to cancel the fancy Italian reservation I had made and instead engaged in our favorite family pastime of Chinese food and a movie. We ordered some spring rolls, egg drop soup, and sesame chicken, and I suggested — as I always do — Field of Dreams. After years of refusals, my son shocked us, and we sat there in the hotel room watching the best movie about baseball that is not remotely about baseball. As Moonlight Graham stepped across the threshold of the baseball field, there was no containing my emotions. 

Boy, don't you worry, you'll find yourself
Follow your heart and nothing else
And you can do this, oh, baby, if you try
All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied

The next morning went like clockwork. A quick breakfast at the hotel. Minivan from the valet. First in line for our 10 a.m. drop-off window. Bags unloaded from the van by 10:03. Drop the van at the hotel and back at the dorm by 10:10. Fix the height of the bed, unpack the bags. Quick walk to Target to get some cube shelves for the all-important TV and Xbox. And the moment when he looks around and smiles and we know he's ready. A hug. A kiss. No tears, as they had all been shed for Field of Dreams. No more advice. Just faith that his journey, the minivan and soundtrack of our trip had brought him to exactly where he needed to be.

And be a simple kind of man
Oh, be something you love and understand
Baby, be a simple kind of man
Oh, won't you do this for me son, if you can?