When it came time to say goodbye, Carol Cattle dug deep to find words. Already, she had talked to her son about never forgetting the way he had been raised.

Before Austin Cattle left for college, his mother shared one last nugget of advice, “It was pretty basic,” the Everett mother said. “Chicks dig guys with brains.”

Good one, Mom. I should have thought of that.

My car engine has barely cooled off from a move-to-college trip. For the second time in my life, I left an 18-year-old on a campus in another state. I left my son Sunday with all his clothes, his electronics, his guitar, a little money and one parting message.

For months, I’d been peppering him with advice. Go to class, get involved on campus, make friends. He’d heard it all so often, by last weekend he probably wasn’t hearing a thing. I shared my long-ago missteps (some, not all), as if that could prevent his own.

Finally, after being there his whole life, I had a moment to leave him with words I hoped he would heed.

“Chicks dig guys with brains,” Carol Cattle’s counsel to Austin as he left for Washington State University on Thursday, is sage guidance. Brief and breezy, it covers a lot, from academics to relationships.

That, and it won’t make anybody cry. It’s bad enough, saying goodbye, without pulling too hard at heartstrings. Those serious last words ought to be a little funny, too. Crying is not a requirement for college freshmen.

I didn’t plan ahead. My words popped suddenly into my head. They came tailor-made for their recipients. It’s not a one-size-fits-all deal, saying goodbye to a child. You pack, you drive, you carry bags and boxes, and too soon it’s done, time to go – and time to say whatever it is you’re going to say.

So what did I tell my kids? What secret of life did I give them?

Four years ago, my daughter heard a short list. This is the laser-focused person who has known since childhood what she wants to do. “Number one,” I told her, “eyes on the prize.” That meant getting her bachelor’s degree and another degree after that, and she’s well on her way.

Number two was “beer and pizza are not your friends,” a lesson I learned the fun way. The rest was quite personal, covering matters of the heart that shape life far more than a class or a grade ever could.

My second born, he’s the mystery man, wildly artistic, yet unsure of what he wants to do. In his high school yearbook, he was named most creative in his senior class. Filmmaker, songwriter, guitarist in a band, he gave me fits with his math grades. At the same time, he delighted me with his wit and talent.

To him, I said this: “For most people in this world, ordinary is fine. You are not ordinary. Don’t ever be ordinary. OK?”

It was cryptic advice for a cryptic kid. I’m not even sure he realized it was my big speech. He sort of looked up from his laptop computer and said, “When have I ever been ordinary, Mom?”

I have one more boy to go. With him, it’s still “be good.” I have a dozen years to conjure up new advice.

Peter Cattle drove to Pullman on Thursday with his son Austin, who graduated this spring from King’s High School in Seattle. “Driving over, it was kind of like, ‘Do as I say, not as I did,’” said Peter Cattle, a 1976 WSU graduate.

“For five hours, I’m talking to him about how important it is to go to classes and to talk to his profs,” Peter Cattle said. “I said to Austin, there will be kids partying and drinking every night. I told him you have choices to make.

“Make the right choices at WSU, you’ll have more choices in life.”

Good one, Dad. I’ll steal it for next time.

When he left Austin at his dorm, Peter Cattle said, “I got a little emotional. I didn’t let him see that. He’s just a great guy, he really is.”

I know. Oh, do I know.

“I’ve already e-mailed him twice and called him twice,” Carol Cattle said. She and Austin’s 11-year-old sister, Madison, already miss cooking for him.

It went so fast, those 18 years.

“I took him to work with me the day after he was born,” Carol Cattle said. “He’s been a treat to have for 18 years.”

It is a treat. Here’s some more advice: Enjoy every minute.

Columnist Julie Muhlstein: 425-339-3460 or muhlsteinjulie@heraldnet.com.