Shed a tear and unload some junk at same time
LORI CLINCH Are We There Yet?
It was one year ago, almost to the day, that we loaded up our eldest son and hauled his freshman-loving wares to college.

As his mother, I must admit that it nearly broke my heart. In a way that some just don't understand, I couldn't bear the thought of my firstborn spending every night away from me.

I cried as he packed his boxes, I wept when he stacked them in the hall, and I sobbed like a baby as he loaded them in the car and made it obvious that he intended to drive away.

While my younger three boys sang songs such as "Achy Breaky Heart" and the ever-loving "Carry on, Our Wayward Son," I stood in the doorway and sniveled.

I also bawled as we drove down the interstate, cried like a fool as we carried boxes to his dorm, and when the moment came to bury my face in my hanky and leave him in that dank little room, there were some who wondered if I needed medication.

I adjusted, however, for I am nothing if not a woman of adaptability and modification. I got used to less laundry, I relished fewer electronics in the living room, and I embraced the fact that at least one bedroom in the house was clean enough for unexpected guests.

Just as I began to realize that one less offspring around the house wasn't altogether a bad thing, Vernon came home for the summer.

Or at least I heard that he came home for the summer. I'm not sure that I actually saw the kid, but word in the kitchen had it that he was about the premises.

There were the telltale signs of Vernon's presence, such as his oversized shoes all about the abode, and gallons of milk left out on the counter — not to mention the socks that were strewn all over the living room. And the real confirmation that Vernon was alive and well at the Clinch compound came when the doorbell rang and the house filled with 30 young men who said that Vernon had invited them over for a poker party.

Given that, you would think that a mother such as myself would be leaping for joy at the prospect of Vernon packing his spades and heading off to college once more. Call me a masochist, but it simply is not so.

As out of line as it may seem, the thought of him leaving started tugging at my heartstrings just last week, and I couldn't help but feel the heartbreak of letting him go all over again.

I was just about to pull a fresh hankie from the box and douse my sorrows by pouring extra cream into my coffee, when I got an e-mail from a dear cousin who was driving her daughter to college and leaving her at the curb of her apartment with their old couch.

"Lady Luck is certainly smiling upon us!" she wrote, and I swear I could almost sense her glee through the cyberspace. "I've wanted a new couch for 16 years and now I have a reason. I've given her my old bedroom set, silverware, and heaven help me, I've found a new home for the hook rug that Jim's mother gave us as a wedding gift."

And therein lies the joy.

What better way could a mother console herself? For you see, if Vernon needs to set up shop, then he's going to need some wares, and who better than his mother to ensure he wants for nothing?

Suddenly I'm looking around the house and thinking to myself, I've hated these end tables for years! The coffee table certainly could go, and why haven't I noticed before how perfect my macramé plant hanger would look in a college apartment?

Much to my husband's dismay, I'm giving Vernon our CorningWare plates, dull knives and mismatched glasses. The coffee maker is making the trip, the toaster is all but boxed up, and the two-legged colander is just the perfect touch of home that Vernon's kitchen needs.

"Hey, Vernon, you're not picky about towels are you?" I asked as I tossed eight frayed and faded bath sheets into a box. "And how do these tumblers look to you?'' The silverware is going, the worn-out hallway rug was packed within seconds, and if that old futon that has been hanging out in the garage for five years doesn't complete a 19-year-old kid's living space, I don't know what will.

Don't get me wrong: I'll still be choked up as I drive away and leave my darling son behind. But as I embrace the prospect of a new set of dishes, I realize I'll probably be OK.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.