If there’s anything I hate, it’s crying in public. Unfortunately, breaking down into loud, heaving sobs and smearing my face with mascara is, I’m afraid, one of my personal trademarks. My stepmother has always claimed this is a talent of mine, being able to fully cry, and she’s jealous that she can’t do anything but perhaps spurt out a couple of dustballs from her tear ducts–but I’ve always wished I could perhaps do a bit less of it. Put me in any semi-sentimental situation–say, anything involving the word goodbye–and you will find me murmuring under my breath, “I’m not going to cry…I’m not going to cry…”

This is what I am always saying just before I break down and have to be led away.

So the other day we took our youngest daughter to college, and I knew that there was no hope of not ending up a blithering, howling banshee, wailing on the streets of New York, letting everyone see that: (1) I am a person with no self-control, and (2) “waterproof” mascara is a big, giant hoax.

I decided that I should train for this, try to get myself desensitized. For days on end, whenever I would be alone in the car, I would practice saying, “Goodbye, Stephanie. Hope dorm life is wonderful, and remember to call me once in a while,” and see how many seconds it was until I needed to pull over. As the days went on, I got to where I could last for maybe twelve seconds. I didn’t see that there was much hope for getting any better than that. Clearly I was going to have to say my goodbye speech and then perform a mad dash in the other direction.

Or maybe, I thought, this was an occasion where you were supposed to cry–unlike, say, when you’re watching a stupid TV commercial in which a dog greets its owner after a long day. Perhaps, I thought, I should stop trying to hold back and just let myself wallow in tears–really give in to the flow of things for once in my life. That was my plan: to blubber away.

The Big Day dawned, and we spent the morning packing up a friend’s van and driving to New York City. First, there was unbelievable traffic. Then we arrived and waited in a line of cars for 45 minutes because there was no place to park. It started to rain. At the dorm, they ran out of carts–those handy things they’d promised we’d have for putting our furnishings in so we could transport them to the fourth floor. Our possessions sat in the rain on the sidewalk until we figured out that we could walk to the fourth floor rather than wait an hour for a cart and then stand in the twenty-minute line for the elevator.

By the time we made eight trips up the four flights of stairs, carrying bedding, computers, dishes, iPod accessories, shoes, clothing, and enough snacks to feed North America, we were all soaking wet and exhausted. We made beds, filled drawers, hung curtains, washed dishes, assembled furniture–and then ran through the rain to Whole Foods to get California rolls and strawberry smoothies. A homeless man on the street begged me to buy his umbrella for four bucks, and for some reason I did, and then laughed when it fell apart in my hands not even five minutes later, all the little spikes falling onto the pavement. Everywhere there were crowds of people, and water falling on our heads, and our shoes squishing in the puddles.

They herded us off to orientation then, where it was also too crowded. The hall was crammed with parents who all smelled wet and tired. Instead of looking sad while the president of the college told us our children would be all right, we all looked like we just needed someplace dry to sit down.

I’d forgotten how days like this really go. Here you think you are going to get a Huge Moment, a time that stands out in relief against the pageant of ordinary life. You think at least there will be a sense of something changing irrevocably, of the gates of your daughter’s childhood clanging shut, of your life shifting in a permanent way.

Instead, you find yourself simply doing what must be done, almost without fanfare. You are tired and wet and hot. You need something to drink. It’s like any other time you’ve moved furniture and boxes. You wonder why you didn’t bring your own umbrella from home, if the leather shoes you’re wearing will ever be the same after these puddles. You end up saying goodbye in the rain–your Big Moment amid the honking of the taxi cabs–and the little stinging in your eyes might just as well be a piece of dust that floated into your eye at the moment you raised your hand in farewell.

Anyway, she’s fine, and she’s promised to call tonight. You realize hours later that, hey, you’re fine, too.