You know I miss my kids when they’re gone.
I don’t even mind doing their laundry or making their food when they swoop in for a pit stop!
And then … one came home.
He arrived bearing boxes and Hefty bags and a huge TV and so much college-inspired stench, I felt the vapers coming on.
“Patrick,” I said. “Why in God’s name did you bring every item of clothing you own? It’s 88 degrees out there. You don’t need your flannel shirts!”
“Maria,” he explained. “There is no wrong time to sport flannel.” Deep sentiment from my little WVU redneck hillbilly.
I was so happy to see his adorable Italian face, that is, until he unloaded his crap upon his bedroom floor like he was operating a dump truck filled with dead animals. I wish I could print a photo of his bedroom because I’m pretty sure you’ve never seen anything like it. I open the door, and my eyes literally, legitimately water.
He’s worked for Big Top Tents all summer and the aroma punctuating the air around him was the hard-hitting fragrance of solid work. But, Good God. Mega laundry ensued.
Remember I just said I wouldn’t mind doing his laundry?
I lied.
When he gets his clean clothes back from Maria’s Suds n’ Duds, folded meticulously and smelling of Tide instead of farm fumes, he complains that his shorts and socks are inside out.
“Son.” I say. “You’re 21 years old. What you throw into the hamper is what you get back. If you can’t take the four seconds necessary to turn your underwear right side up, Mama ain’t doing it. Those days are over, pal.” He was frowning and shook his head sadly. Seriously, he was deeply disappointed in me!
Since the kids have gone, Nancy now does the cooking! I am on hiatus. Like, forever. I’ve prepared meals for 35 years and I can eat cereal for dinner and be perfectly happy.
So, when the kids are home, and they expect to be fed, I say: “Go ask Dad.” If he’s on the golf course, which is almost always, they look to me for sustenance. I mean, what do they eat at school? Don’t tell me, because it will make me puke.
Remember I just said I don’t mind cooking for them?
I lied.
When he complains because I finally made him an egg sandwich for the third day in a row, I toss a can of Redi-Whip and a Slim Jim his way. Bon Appetite! I no longer suffer from The Guilt of the Potential Malnourished.
He then proceeded to dig into the freezer and grabbed two of my fat free, sugar free fudgsicles. I almost fainted. “Patrick! You can eat ANY dessert you want! Why are you eating my special diet treats?”
“Maybe I’m watching my weight, too, toots.” And he laughed and laughed and ran out of the room because he noted I was standing right next to the drawer containing knives and meat mallets.
The last straw? I was in the bathroom washing my face and he was there chatting with me because children, even adult children, only like to talk to you at inconvenient times. I put my towel back on the hook. He couldn’t believe it.
“You use the same towel for more than one day?!” He was incredulous.
“Yes. I wasn’t working in the coal mines today, so I think it’s OK.”
He scrunched up his nose and sniffed,” That’s so gross, mom.”
This emperor thinks he gets a new towel every day!
This emperor needs a slice of real life.
This emperor needs to move out of my castle and back to his serf lodgings, where he’s free to wear flannel in the summer and wash seven towels a week. You and I both know he’ll never turn that underwear right side out. I love you, son. Now go back to West Virginia.
