Saturday, March 27, 2010
My 22-year-old son is moving back home ...
We get along very well. Thank God he's not 17 anymore. 17 was a bad year. To use his own words, he had a lot of hormones he didn't know what to do with. And no, we're not talking about fixating on girls ... not those kind of hormones. The raging, I mean raging ones. He was über rebellious, defiant, and disrespectful. He is none of that now. He is thoughtful, loving, respectful. He is now five years older and wiser. And so am I.
He doesn't "cramp our style." The three of us still will live our lives pretty much the same, as far as having our own schedules, coming and going as we pretty much please.
So what will change? A lot. Unable to sleep until I know he's safely at home. No matter how old he is, I will always worry about him. He delivers pizzas for a living, is constantly on the road, and regularly pulls the closing shift. Yes, I will worry. And I will wait.
The noise. Ohhhh the noise. :) Loud music booming from downstairs. Loud TV coming from downstairs. Bedroom and bathroom doors and cabinet doors and refrigerator doors and microwave oven doors, all shutting loudly.
Cabinet doors left open. My bedroom door left open during the day (subjecting my belongings to the cat and dog). Lights left on. Lights shining in my bedroom from the hallway at 3 a.m. (I do not like to have my bedroom door closed at night.)
Do I sound like I'm complaining? I'm not. :)
Yes, my adult son is moving home. And continuing college. And working (nearly) full-time. Sacrifices will have to be made ... by all of us. But I couldn't be happier. My boy is HOME. MY boy is home. :)