Wait, wasn’t I supposed to be sipping a demitasse at a Paris café this morning?
I checked my schedule and, indeed, my children were supposed to be gone already. Well, one of them. The other one is never here anyway so it doesn’t matter. But the 20 year old? She’s still sleeping in her room which, in French, is pronounced My Office.
But she has a job and she’s going to go to school. I think. She said she was. I’m not sure which school she’s going to. Maybe she’s going to the school of sleep-all-day-go-out-all night and wear that one dress that makes me want to drape a blanket over her.
I willingly gave up my hip years to raise kids. I could’ve been a slightly bearded wordsman waiting tables in a boutique pork shop while spending all night smoking Gitanes, drinking coffee, writing 700 page oubliettes while never using the letter e. But no, I was hip deep in dirty laundry, spent Pampers, and old pizza boxes. Instead of chilling out to jazz in Prague, I was learning all the words to the Sponge Bob theme song.
Which is all fine, because of the unspoken contract between I and my progeny in which, pursuant to page 89, paragraph 16, sub section MN, which states: “you will leapt from the premises as you turn 18 with a job in one hand and apartment keys in the other, forsooth.”
Hasn’t happened yet.
My friend’s nest is empty as a Church on Saturday. He’s renovated his daughter’s room into a den and turned the other kid’s room into a mancave. His empty nest is like a lair. He’s currently teaching his dog how to open a beer.