By Lana Robertson Hayes
I hesitate to commit these events to paper because I probably don't know what I'm doing and my son isn't here to stop me.
I hesitate to commit these events to paper because I probably don't know what I'm doing and my son isn't here to stop me.
When we checked our entering freshman into his new dormitory at Arizona State University, he took the occasion to point out to my husband and me -- vociferously -- that we just didn't know anything. On the other hand, he did... which makes the next four years seem superfluous, not to mention a drain on our savings. Were it not for the nocturnal extracurricular activities in which he hoped to engage, the scheduled courses would only gild the lily.
"No, Dad, my textbooks don't go on that shelf. That's where I want my stereo."
"Mom, don't put my pens in that desk drawer. I'll never find them."
"Extra towels? Why do I need extra towels? I have a perfectly good one in the bathroom."
He orchestrated our every action from the comfort of his bed.
From now on, my husband and I will try to muddle through the days to come without the benefit of our son's counsel on every topic. And hopefully, with the passage of time, my facial tic will hardly be noticeable.
Our son has a male roommate and male suitemates, but from that point on the dynamics change. Coeds -- each more eye-catching than the one before -- live directly across the hall. Females are housed everywhere on his floor. It's a totally mixed-gender dorm. Our son, a recent graduate of an all-boys' high school, was trying hard to appear cool -- with his hooded eyelids, a bored expression, and his I-can't-be-bothered attitude. But from long experience I'm familiar with every nuance of his act, and he was definitely drinking in the scenery and checking out the ladies.
That afternoon we old folks were bid a hasty goodbye. Our young man, far from needing to cling to the comfort and security of his family, was anxious to settle into his new and wonderful parent-free zone.
My husband and I treated ourselves to a dinner of steak and lobster, drowning our sorrows in melted butter. And all this delicious revenge was on a weeknight, no less. As we rattled around in the booth that was too vast for just the two of us, we discussed the events of that auspicious day. How could one textbook cost $75.00? Where had the years gone? How could our child suddenly be in college? When would we ever get the hang of being parents?
Today, I'm wallowing in painful luxury. Our son's bed is neatly made and his room is tidy. The rafters no longer shudder with the steady thud of the bass turned up to full volume. The refrigerator is stocked with healthful food and the door remains closed.
And, unbelievably, my familiar tic is gone.
"No, Dad, my textbooks don't go on that shelf. That's where I want my stereo."
"Mom, don't put my pens in that desk drawer. I'll never find them."
"Extra towels? Why do I need extra towels? I have a perfectly good one in the bathroom."
He orchestrated our every action from the comfort of his bed.
From now on, my husband and I will try to muddle through the days to come without the benefit of our son's counsel on every topic. And hopefully, with the passage of time, my facial tic will hardly be noticeable.
Our son has a male roommate and male suitemates, but from that point on the dynamics change. Coeds -- each more eye-catching than the one before -- live directly across the hall. Females are housed everywhere on his floor. It's a totally mixed-gender dorm. Our son, a recent graduate of an all-boys' high school, was trying hard to appear cool -- with his hooded eyelids, a bored expression, and his I-can't-be-bothered attitude. But from long experience I'm familiar with every nuance of his act, and he was definitely drinking in the scenery and checking out the ladies.
That afternoon we old folks were bid a hasty goodbye. Our young man, far from needing to cling to the comfort and security of his family, was anxious to settle into his new and wonderful parent-free zone.
My husband and I treated ourselves to a dinner of steak and lobster, drowning our sorrows in melted butter. And all this delicious revenge was on a weeknight, no less. As we rattled around in the booth that was too vast for just the two of us, we discussed the events of that auspicious day. How could one textbook cost $75.00? Where had the years gone? How could our child suddenly be in college? When would we ever get the hang of being parents?
Today, I'm wallowing in painful luxury. Our son's bed is neatly made and his room is tidy. The rafters no longer shudder with the steady thud of the bass turned up to full volume. The refrigerator is stocked with healthful food and the door remains closed.
And, unbelievably, my familiar tic is gone.
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