It has begun. The mass emigration from college campuses to homes of origin is in full swing, friends, and I, for one, am not looking forward to its completion.
For context, Doo and I have four children, three of whom are “livin’ the dream” as coeds in dorms or apartments. We’ve basically spent the past year flirting with an attractive empty nest that promises endless quiet, clean countertops and small Meijer bills. Sure, we still have our youngest around, but she’s the consummate teenager, appearing at mealtime and the occasional holiday party. Her existence here is literally only evidenced by drying leggings in the laundry room and her stupid healthy choice foods. I exercise for Twinkies, people, not soy-based, protein-enriched nut bread.
But I digress. The point is, the domestic sanctuary I’ve recently started enjoying is about to be overrun by a bunch of loud-mouthed, newly opinionated, incessantly hungry, “independent” young adults who are thrilled to be once again on the dole. We will go from an easy, family of 2 1/2 to a terrifying mosh pit of six. Empty bedrooms will become war zones, the driveway a mine field, and the kitchen, a 24-hour mess hall barely operating because of low rations, a broken dishwasher and ever-flowing trash cans. Am I mixing my metaphors? Of course, I am! The impending onslaught has me discombobulated enough to compare their homecoming to both a Metallica concert and an armed conflict.
Alright, alright. Before you go bashing my lack of maternal affection, know that I love my kids dearly. I simply love them more now that they live away. So, wish me luck, for it has begun.