Did I overprepare my kid for college freshman year? A parent’s honest story
Last August, I locked my car after unloading my oldest’s dorm boxes and caught myself wiping chili grease off my jeans. That morning, I’d stopped at his favorite grocery store an hour outside campus, pre-portioned a month of his go-to chili, froze it all, and stacked it in his mini fridge. I’d labeled every container with cook time, stirring instructions, even a little joke about not forgetting the cheese. He’d rolled his eyes when I did it, but didn’t stop me. Standing in the hot parking lot, that’s when the quiet question I’d been pushing down all summer popped up: did I cook myself for this? I’d spent 18 years getting him ready, but had I gone so far that I’d left no room for him to grow? Or worse, that I’d made myself so necessary he’d call me crying at 2 a.m. over every small problem, and I’d never actually be able to step back?
The year before, my nephew had started college two states away, and my sister ended up driving three hours every other weekend to fix his messes: unclog a drain, sort his laundry, negotiate a wrong tuition charge with the bursar’s office. I left one of those visits swearing I wouldn’t end up that way. So I started small, years before move-in: one Sunday a month starting sophomore year of high school, he had to plan, shop for, and cook dinner for the whole family. If he undercooked the pasta, we ate undercooked pasta. If he forgot to buy salt, we passed the shaker and moved on. I made him call the dentist to book his own cleanings starting junior year, change the oil in his old truck by himself senior year, even write his own emails to his high school teachers when he needed an extension on a paper. Every small skill, practiced at home, so he wouldn’t have to figure it out for the first time when he was already stressed about classes and friends.
But by move-in week, every other parent I talked to was saying I was doing too much. They said kids need to struggle, that figuring out laundry the hard way is part of the freshman experience. That I was robbing him of that growth by teaching him everything before he left. That’s when the doubt set in hard: had I overcooked the whole thing? Had I spent so much time prepping that I’d left nothing for him to learn on his own?
The first test came three weeks into the semester. He called me, frustrated, saying the dorm washing machine had eaten his $20 bill and locked his bag of hoodies inside. My first instinct, the one I’d had his whole life, was to ask for the front desk number and call them myself. That’s what I’d always done when the school called with a problem, when the car broke down, when he forgot his lunch. But I bit my tongue, and instead I said, “The front desk number is on that sticker we put on your door, right? What do you think you should say to them?”
He huffed, said “fine, I’ll call you back” and hung up. An hour later, I got a text: they gave me my $20 back, got my hoodies out. That wasn’t even hard. You were right.
That moment clarified something I’d been fumbling through for months. The argument that kids need to struggle on their own isn’t wrong, but where you struggle matters. Struggling with a burnt grilled cheese in your dorm, when you’re already homesick and overwhelmed by midterms, that’s unnecessary stress. Struggling with a burnt grilled cheese at home, when I’m in the next room and you can order pizza if you mess up, that’s good practice. The concrete thing I did that worked, that other parents can copy, is to let them make small, low-stakes mistakes years before they leave. It’s okay if they shrink a $12 t-shirt doing laundry at home. That’s way better than them shrinking their favorite expensive hoodie the first week of college and panicking so bad they call you to come fix it.
The other concrete trick I’ve leaned on, instead of jumping in to solve problems, is to just ask “what do you think your first step should be?” It’s not “let me fix that for you” and it’s not “figure it out on your own” – it meets them in the middle. It reminds them they already know most of what they need, they just need a nudge to trust themselves. I used to think prepping meant I’d made myself unnecessary, but it turns out it just means I’m a safety net, not the main walking rope. If he really can’t figure it out after trying, I’ll help. But nine times out of ten, he doesn’t need me to.
Last week, he texted me a photo of the turkey he cooked for a Friendsgiving at his dorm. The skin was a little too dark, the gravy was lumpy, but all his friends ate it and asked for seconds. He’s coming home for Thanksgiving next week, and he’s already texted me a list of ingredients he wants me to have, because he’s cooking our family turkey this year to practice.
I still have bad nights where I lie awake wondering if I messed up. I worry that when he hits a really big problem – a failing midterm, a fight with a close friend, a broken down car on the side of the road – he’ll still reach for me instead of handling it himself, or that I pushed him too fast too soon. I don’t have any perfect answers, and this whole thing is still a work in progress. There will probably be missteps I don’t even see for years. So far, though, every small problem he’s hit, he’s figured it out on his own first, before he even thinks to call me. That’s what I wanted all along, right? I don’t know if it’s the right way for everyone, but for us, it’s working. That’s enough for right now.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Did I overprepare my kid for college freshman year