This coming spring I shall enter a new phase in my life know in modern terms as empty nest syndrome. I realize that most of my contemporaries dealt with this life-altering sitch (situation) years ago. As many of you realize, I gave birth to “The Baby,” (now called “The Child”) when I was in my early thirties so I'm late to the game.
Not to mention but The Child (TC) is now 20, as of November, and it's time for him to git, as they say in Texas. Mind you, he has no problem with exiting stage left and has only remained in the shoe box this long in order to help out financially, etc.
I am going to utilize the infamous list in order to impart to you the various things I shall miss about having that tender guy around on a regular basis.
One: I will miss the plethora of coats, hats, dress shirts, ties and any other garment that can cling to a clothing tree for dear life. The tree of which I speak is designed to hold a few jackets and maybe a heavy coat.
Since TC insists on wearing suits every day of his life and we have NO closet space in this dump, he tends to rely on the apparatus more often than not.
The @*%$# thing has literally tipped over on numerous occasions due to his wardrobe being plunked haphazardly on every available (?) arm. Mind you, this is located at the entryway of the home which is super delightful in terms of taking a guest's coat.
Two: I will long for the days of switching laundry only to find 324 towels. I have never in my days seen anything like this.
Mind you, he does take care of this jazz on his own but from time to time either Perpetual (fiance) or I end up transferring from washer to dryer, and/or folding.
P and I are secretly thrilled to the marrow and find sheer joy in the fact that one day TC could rent a place that has NO on site laundry facilities. We fantasize about TC making 17 trips to the public laundromat just to wash his precious towels.
We throw our heads back in laughter as we imagine his car zooming down the road packed with baskets, detergent and a plethora of towels blowing in the wind due to open windows. Are we hideous people? In a word, yes.
Three: I will beg for the days of utilizing acrobatics in order to enter TC's room during times of lax “redding up” habits. I will weep openly when I no longer have to hire a local excavator to clear the path for my entrance into the west wing of the abode.
I will be heartbroken when I no longer have to pay a chiropractor to realign me due to violent twisting and turning actions carried out during maneuvers.
Four: I will be sitting Shiva (Jewish mourning practice) when I no longer discover empty containers in the refrigerator. I cannot fathom the thought of actually unearthing a piece of pizza, for one example, in the original Pizza Joe's box.
I have been greeted repeatedly by the empty box syndrome—not the same as empty nest, by the by. I shall be homesick for the good old days, I'm quite certain.
Five: I will rock back and forth whilst sitting in a corner and clutching a pillow as I reflect on how The Child always did as asked within seconds. (Aunt Liz, if you are reading this I know you are nodding madly and I appreciate the support.) I cannot begin to add up the number of times AL and I lived through something like the following dialog...
AL: “ TC, I need you to switch that load of towels!”
TC: “Just a sec.”
AL: “Hey, TC!!!!! I just fell and am having a hard time here!! HELP!!”
TC: “Just a sec.”
Those are just two examples of the infamous, “just a sec” reply to all requests made.
Now, I have to say in his defense that he has gotten a touch better as he has aged. Just a touch, mind you. Also, any time Mother asks him to do something, he leaps next door in the fashion of the FTD man. In other words, TC respects his “Bubby” and does as she asks, PRONTO. As we all know, she wouldn't have it any other way.
Six: I will fondly reflect on all of the times when TC forgot to pick up a major ingredient needed for dinner. He either flat out forgets or seizes the wrong item, much like my father used to do, now that I ponder. (On that note, one time Mother was prepping a certain kind of potato dish that called for heavy cream. My father, known as Germ, came sauntering in hours later—from a quick jaunt to the Golden Dawn, with Cool Whip in tow. That went over like excrement in a punch bowl. I'm trying to be delicate in case Mother reads this as she would be appalled with the actual word. Yes, I digressed and it's about time.)
Back to TC and his selective memory, I needed ONE main ingredient for chili the other night and he came bouncing in with something totally different. I just faked it, which is what I do more oft' than not. (No, Aunt Liz, it was not a can of corn. I already had that on deck and ready.)
I'm done with the list as it's time for me to segue to sweetness. Get up right now. This is getting to be a habit and I do not appreciate it.
When all is said and done, as the saying goes, I will miss my little guy (all five feet 11 inches). I do enjoy our “through the bathroom door chat” that unfolds every time he is in the shower.
Directly before I paint his room and turn it into an office/closet region, I will sit in said quarters and burst into tears. (Mother claimed she did this when I moved off to Houston in 1983 but I'm not sure if I really buy that. I think as my plane was on the runway she had already turned my sleeping region into a deluxe dressing room.)
The Child and I have had a wonderful mother son relationship and even though I complain daily—just ask him, I don't know how I will function when he flies away like a little birdie.
I just don't know how all of those clean towels will actually fit in the bathroom cupboard. I cannot imagine what the clothing tree looks like in its birthday suit. I don't know what I will do with the correct ingredients in a casserole. How will I react when I reach for an egg and the carton is full?
Oh NO. I don't think I can handle the reality of it all. The only thing left to say is.... HOLD ME.
THE END.