I can't believe it, but I'm ready. This nest is crowded, and I'm ready for some of those birds to learn to fly, and find their own nests. When I think of Molly, who is my youngest, going off to school, or even over to her dad's house it triggers the whole middle aged "empty nest" thing but these other birds, the full grown ones, should be flying by now. I'm tired of being awakened in the middle of my night by people coming home and talking at a regular conversational tone. I'm tired of people being on vent while playing World of Warcraft until dawn and not thinking that they need to be quiet. I'm ready to go shopping and stock my refrigerator knowing that there will still be items in it three days later. I want a dry bathroom floor. I want to walk out from the shower with a towel around my waist, or go get coffee in my bra.
I would love to have my house look the way it looked in the morning when I left for work, and never again see an empty Peets drink cup on any surface in the house that I, the guilty leaver of cups and water bottles didn't deposit there myself. I want to live with my husband. I picture living in a house with an attached and self contained unit for Molly, who I wish would live with us until she's 25 or so, but not really in our house. I want milk in the carton dammit.
I admit, all three of these boys who are men are here at my invitation. All were invited by my guilts of one color or another. At the time it felt good to offer my home and my assistance and bring them home so I could do it right this time, finally be a good mother, or in Michael's case heal the damage I've done to our relationship by living together and not being a douchebag to him any more. That's going well, I love him. I love them all, that's not even the issue. I'm just sick of living with them. I'm sick of supporting them financially. By I, I mean we, because Michael and I are one unit with one set of aligned goals. He's not writing this blog though, so I get to say I, and my favorite me, me, me.
I think this stage of parenting is like the secondary heal that all tattoos go through. There's the first part where the tattoo flakes and peels and is obviously is shedding it's dead layer of skin and finally looks good. Then all of a sudden it develops this milky layer of skin that comes off slower, and less dramatically. That's called secondary heal. When they hit 18 you think "Ok, now they're grown up, but I know they're still kids and need some raising for a while, I'll help them get up and into the adult world." and it's no surprise that they still live at home and don't know how to live on their own. By the time they're 25 and still living in your back room and don't have a job or have never gotten around to registering a car they've owned for five years all of a sudden it can be overwhelming. This part of parenting is where you think you're done, but you still have grown adults in your house asking "What's for dinner" or saying "We're out of shampoo."
One has had a couple of promising job interviews, one has a good job and says he's moving out in late September, early November, and one sleeps on my couch all day. Correction, sleeps on his brother's couch all day. Up all night, sleep all day, times two. Talking in the middle of the night. Locusts in the kitchen, ducks in the bathroom. I want to live with my husband.
Once my brilliant mad-scientist moves out and takes his couch with him, I get a whole living room to make into craft central. Every space will be either for art, or music, or writing. The hot glue gun will become decor, the sewing machine will take a place of honor on a surface large enough to lay out and cut fabric. There will be ample space for a microphone stand and some other music equipment and a computer to record some tracks. That room will be ours and Molly's until she's old enough to go to some school somewhere and be on her way to whatever fantastic future she's aimed at. I personally do not believe it's simply a salon, whether she owns it or not, I think there are larger things in store for her.
I want our own house, most probably a smaller house, but with a large yard so I can have all the animal friends I want without worrying about the landlord's disapproval. Even though my current residents would say "Eeeeew, gross!" I would occasionally like to walk around naked. Yep, I'm old, and I would still like to do that now and then.
For now, everyone needs to have a job, and/or go to school and make a significant contribution of time and money to the house we have. They need to finish growing up and find their own homes. They need to mature enough to marry and provide me with those grandchildren my secondary clock is ticking for. Call me Grandma and I'll feed you your own spleen, but we'll get to that when the time comes. It's time to be done with this phase of parenting and get on to the next one, the one where they visit often and I still love each and every one of them as much as I do today, yet can buy cheesecake and have some tomorrow because it's still in the refrigerator. I'm ready to be able to invite my adult friends over and not have to sit on my bed because there is nowhere else in my house that doesn't have someone sleeping or on a computer. Actually, I'm ready to live in a house that doesn't have 7 computers in it, I think my three are enough.
This entire speech is brought to you by a woman who was awakened at her usual pre-dawn hour by her husband returning from Jack in the Box because two adult baby boys came home at three in the morning and acted like it was mid-afternoon in volume and activity, which for them it was. By the time he finished being angry and came back to bed I was swimming up to the top of sleep anyway, and was aware of his absence. On some level I always know if he's close or far, because we are connected, whether I'm asleep or not. I want to live with him. Did you notice the period at the end of that last sentence? It's because there was nothing more to add.