My oldest always seems this big to me when I drop her at college.

I moved my oldest daughter into her dorm room yesterday for the start of sophomore year of college. On Labor Day.

Ironic to me. The word. And the day. You labor to bring a child into the world. And then you get to leave the hospital with her.

Then, you labor for 19 years, doing your best to raise her to be the best possible human she can be, and bring her to college, and leave empty-handed. On Labor Day.

You would think the second year would be easier. We have already had the teary goodbyes. Gotten accustomed to walking by her empty room at home. Sent the care packages. (Thank you Amazon Prime!) Got the “miss you” texts. And had the happy homecomings.

But it wasn’t easier. I still felt like I was leaving my baby unattended. Like a fluffy white seal cub alone on the beach. Or the geometric baby on the warning sign of the McDonald’s changing table, stranded right before it rolls to the floor.

To be candid, the last few weeks were tough to have my 19-year-old at home. For both of us. As anyone knows who has gone to college and come back to live under Mom’s house rules, even if just on summer break, the struggle is real. She was living in a no curfew world, and I am a curfew girl. (I sang that last sentence to the tune of “Material Girl.” Totally works.)

The struggle is made worse by the fact that all of her friends had gone back to college in early August. So she was stuck under my rules. With just me. And we both struggled.

Even though she views me through the Mom lens, I knew well what she was going through. I went to college. A million years ago, granted. I loved every second of it. To the point that come mid August every year after I graduated, I got depressed. I mean, I’m sure I could have sat around the dinner table and paid my family for quarter beers in plastic cups while I blasted some Wham! but it would not have been the same.

My daughter also knows what she is missing while at home and not at school. She and her friends refer to college as “camp.” I hold my tongue and don’t say, “well, then that’s the world’s most expensive camp ever.” Because it would be.

Instead, I embrace the concept…time away with friends, where you grow as a person, learn new skills, forge new friendships and hopefully don’t roll off the McDonald’s changing table.

It IS camp, in a sense. Time away from me, knowing I am just a text or Chase Quick Pay away in the event of an emergency. Time to figure out what you like, what you want to do and who you want to be when you grow up.

Enjoy your time at camp, beloved firstborn. Find a path. Follow it. Change the world. I will stop, lest I sound like a Macklemore song.

I promise to love you and send care packages and supportive texts. And not apply for a job as camp counselor. Much as I would like to.

Even though she is actually not a baby at all.