Berklee Tears

I just returned to the apartment I'm airbnbing in Boston, about a ten minute walk from where Frank checked in for his weekend at Berklee College of Music. It was a beautiful walk back along Commonwealth Avenue and over to Boylston, which I feel as though I know well after twenty-four hours here.

I tried to smile on the walk back, mainly because I left my sunglasses at the apartment, and if I didn't smile . . . I'd cry. Like I am now. They aren't sad tears. Not at all. They're proud-mom tears.

There are Berklee buildings everywhere you look in this part of Back Bay. On one of our tour buses today, the driver said the college owns most of the buildings in this area, which is easy to believe. Consequently, there are college-age kids everywhere you look, most carrying instruments.

Frank and I had a great time exploring today. By the time we got to Cambridge and Harvard Square, he was chatty. Last night, not so much. When I tried to get him to talk about how he was feeling, he clammed up and said he couldn't have that conversation with me. I understand. He's a seventeen-year-old kid about to spend a weekend at a place he believes he wants to spend four years attending. A place where only about a third of those who apply to get into. He doesn't know what to expect from this workshop, which I also understand. I would feel the same way he does.

But I'm not him. I'm his mom . . . with a full set of mom-emotions wreaking havoc on my already tired state of mind. He's my first born. He's also my buddy. I can count on a couple fingers the number of people who I enjoy spending time with as much as I enjoy his company.

I wish he could see himself, if only for a few minutes, through my eyes. He is bright, and funny, charming, polite, interesting, compassionate, and creative. It's the last one that's giving him the most anxiety presently. It's tough being the child of two very creative parents. I can say it's also tough being the wife of a very creative man . . . if you are also creative. I don't know anyone as creative as Doug. As much as I admire it, it also intimidates me when I, too, am endeavoring my own projects.

But back to Frank. I went with him to the housing building to make sure everything was in order for his check-in. Everything was. He was given directions to his room, told about housing meetings, program check-in, and dining hours. And then it was time for me to leave. There were several other teenage-looking people with their parents, also checking in. I hesitated before I hugged him not knowing if it would embarrass him. It didn't. He hugged me so hard. I told him to have fun. To learn something, but mainly to have fun.

All day I tried to weave in a message about this time of his life being the only time he will have this particular experience. When he graduates and goes to college it will be like no other time. If he takes five years off between high school and college, he won't have this opportunity. I am thankful that he can go through this journey without having to worry about working or student loans or whether he can afford to stay in school. If he follows the path set out for him, he should be all set.

More importantly, if he follows his passion . . . whether it's music or he decides it's something else, he should at the very minimum be on the path to self-discovery. As his mom, I hope he's also on the path to self-fulfillment.

If I don't wrap this post up, I'll be late for dinner with a dear friend who I haven't seen since Doug and I got married. Time to wipe my tears, buck up, and know Frank is okay.