Sunshine and Olly

by Jonathan Blaustein

I’m back in Taos, after a whirlwind weekend. 

On Friday, Theo and I packed up his life and drove to Santa Fe for an art opening at CENTER Space, as one of my Party City is the Devil photos was featured in an exhibition. 

He and I were pretty amped up, but since we were in New Mexico, (on our way to an airport hotel in ABQ,) life still felt at least a little normal. 

On Saturday, we caught a very early flight to Houston, and his new life, in his new city, began in earnest. 

Yes, it was hot as balls, and yes, we had to wait an hour for our rental car. (Which gave me Durango flashbacks.)

But seeing him so excited offered a sense of gratitude, even though I was a bit of an emotional wreck on the inside. 

We had a truly, lovely Saturday-brunch with my friend Lisa and her husband Russ. They promised to hang out with Theo, give him a place to study, and generally look after him like fairy godparents. 

(Tapping my network to care for my son was my parting gift.)

All the details of the weekend don’t really matter that much.

We ate amazing food, and spent money at Target on all the dorm-room essentials. 

And we even got to attend a Rice meet-and-greet the night before I dropped him off, where he ran around with kids who’d be majoring in the same subject he plans to. (Sport Management, though he’s going to double-major in Economics.)

I spent some QT with one of his future Econ professors, Jimmy DeNicco, whom we met in January, and I’ve become friends with a bit online. 

(Jimmy’s one of those guys everyone loves, and he writes a phenomenal blog you should check out.)

That said, I feel like I’m sharing these things with you, which felt normal, to mask the reality of what was to come, which most certainly was not. 






Yesterday, I spoke with a new friend about Rites of Passage. 

Those times in our life, or ceremonies, that are so universal, they’re known for it. 

The birth of a child. The death of a parent. Graduations. The first trip to a foreign country. 

Dropping your kid off at college is definitely on the list. People often romanticize it, and make sure everyone sees the smiling photos. 

There’s supposed to be a ritual to it.

And I guess people who’ve lived through saying good bye to their first born child know the ceremony is probably meant to distract from the pain. 

Because letting go is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Even now, I’m tearing up a bit, if I’m being honest. 

(Yes, tough guys can cry. Deal with it.)

Theo’s almost 19. He started kindergarten late, in order to synch up with his cousin. 

Biologically, he’s been ready to be on his own for a few months now. 

It was like watching a big gorilla in a tiny cage. 

He began to bristle at limitations, and crave the freedom to make his own decisions. (And his own mistakes.)

To do as he pleases, when he pleases. 

I get it. 

Adults can sometimes take that freedom for granted. For me, the seminal moment was when I got my driver’s license. Nothing was ever the same. 

But for Theo, Rice University was his dream school. Houston is his dream city. My kid simply couldn’t contain his excitement. 

So as much as he loves me, and we’re best bros, he also could not wait to be free of me, once we got to campus on Sunday morning. 






The orientation is run by other students. 

Rice empowers young people to be in positions of responsibility, and power. 

They have residential colleges, so the whole place is like a non-magical Hogwarts, for super-high achievers. (And there’s more money down there than any New Mexican can fathom.)

So I had to let him go. 

I had to be OK without the fairytale goodbye. 

Without the perfect picture. 

He loves me, he cherishes me... but in that moment, he wanted to get me the fuck out of there. 

So I left, casually, not ceremonially. 

I did what was best for him. What he needed. 

Even though it hurt like getting my joints torn in jiu-jitsu. (But without all the adrenaline to mask the pain.)






Letting go, heading back to an empty Airbnb apartment, filling my time on Sunday, they all required tremendous effort. 

But I also felt like a person, and not a Dad.

I mediated in the Rothko Chapel. Met up with a photo friend for a nourishing conversation. Went to see art at The Menil Collection. Ate takeout Vietnamese noodles. Headed back to Rice to fill out a postcard for Theo, and chat up one of his professors. 

And ultimately, I had a long, leisurely dinner and a drink with one of my dearest friends. 

Each time I thought about what my day had been like, I’d get emotional. 

So I didn’t think about it much. I just lived. 

Yesterday, heading home from Houston, I stopped in ABQ and had a two hour coffee with a new friend, (my future instructor in a cinematography class,) and I reconnected with a photo printer in Santa Fe I hadn’t seen for years. 

Once I got home, and noticed Theo’s truck in the driveway, and his bedroom door closed, I teared up again. 

Today, folding the clothes he left behind, I got super-sad. 

Man, this process is tough. 

We raised him to be independent. And confident. We taught him to dream big, and now he’s living his dream. 

But they keep the kids so busy in O-Week, I’ve barely heard from him. 

He’s living his life, out of sight, and I’m just trusting everything is OK. 

Letting go is so painful, but also beautiful. 

I’m only beginning to rediscover my own identity, now that he doesn’t need me 7 days a week. 

It’s complicated, empowering, scary, painful, and liberating. 

Like life.