I was standing at the stove, desperately hoping that I had rummaged up enough pasta to stretch yesterday’s leftovers into dinner tonight for four.
The thunder of college-aged footsteps pelting down the stairs announced the arrival of one of my customers.
But then I heard the tell-tale buzz of a cell-phone receiving a text, and my son said, “Mom, I hope it’s OK, I’m going out to dinner.”
Next, I heard my own phone buzzing, with a text from my younger boy, who was still at a friend’s house. He asked, “Okay if I stay here for dinner?” And suddenly, I was only feeding two people after all.
This would have been good news an hour ago, but now it was hard to pick the extra noodles out of the meat sauce.
“I don’t want to complain,” I began, to my husband.
“And yet, why does it feel like you’re about to?” he responded.
“It’s just so hard for me to manage, with everything changing around, all the time.”
In truth, I’ve only had both boys at home for a matter of weeks, since the college student arrived – and he’s only staying for two or three weeks more, before he goes back to college.
So how can I complain? I’m happy he’s here – but it’s driving me crazy.
I can’t even plan when to do chores! Take the time last week when I had just finished an hour-long wrestling match downstairs with the laundry.
As my reward, and for a break before I started in on folding things, I plopped down on the living room couch. I was looking forward to something I consider a guilty pleasure, an episode of “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries,” on PBS.
Just then, my high-school senior – who was home, for once – brought in his laptop and sat down next to me.
“Do you mind if I work on my college application essay here?” he asked. “I just can’t concentrate up in my room. It’s too quiet.”
How could I complain? And yet it meant I couldn’t watch my TV show; not after that!
“You’re just out of practice,” said my husband. “Remember how it used to be? You told me your life felt like a non-stop three-ring circus.
I remember you telling my sister you didn’t let yourself have any favorite TV shows, because it hurt too much when you couldn’t watch them. Now you have some, and you’re complaining.”
“Yup, it’s those darned TV shows,” I replied. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”
“Didn’t you say, not so long ago, that all you wanted was for us to have a happy home?” he continued. He has a very inconvenient way of remembering things just when I hope he’ll forget.
“Yes. I meant the kids should have a happy time with activities I’ve planned for them – for all of us! Like trips to the beach or at least the swimming pool – not this random hodgepodge of coming and going when I never know what to expect!”
“My poor little control freak,” he said soothingly. “Are you saying you’d like to micromanage us all?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Let me put it this way. Let’s step back for just a minute, and see the big picture—”
“I can’t; your laundry is in the way.”
“I mean metaphorically. In the total scheme of things, is it bad, or good, that our children are developing friendships and lives of their own?”
“Of course it’s a good thing,” I said, “but….“
“And is it bad, or good, that inexplicably, sometimes, they still like to stick around?”
“That’s good, too, but….”
“But what?”
“But it’s driving me crazy!”
“Hmm. What would happen if you just, sort of, embrace the ‘crazy’? After all, they’re old enough to feed themselves, and they each have a key to the house. Why not relax a little, just for the summer? Consider it your version of “Zen.” You can go back to scheduling our lives in the fall.”
“I guess it’s true – nobody will starve to death, with the amount of cereal we have in this house, and microwave popcorn…. All right, I’ll try it. On one condition.”
“What?”
“You give me that TV remote.”
Just then we heard chimes coming from the street. We took one look at each other and shouted, “Zen!” Then the two of us hurried out the door, after the ice cream truck. Ah, summer at last!
