The child is gone!

The following is a repeat of an earlier blog(different blog, those who know me)and the following are comments after the event.

Repeat after me, “I will never never never,” now finish the sentence with a deep breath and a loud shout, “let my adult child come home”. Now beat your chest repeatedly with your fists!

The Chinese say, “Whenever there is something to be said or done say and do the kind thing.”

No! Stop! That most assuredly does not apply to grown children. Do you know why? Because no matter how old they are.

They remain children. They act like children, they whine, leave lights on, leave their wet towel s hung over the door after a shower, leave coffee cups all over the house and leave oatmeal bowls that are so old that the spoon has permanently cemented to the bottom of the dish thus qualifying it as a piece of modern art. They leave their opened attaché cases sprawled on the dining room table, a no-no since they were ten when school bags turned into the size of carry on luggage. They park their cars behind you even after taking a blood oath to refrain from committing such an atrocity. They disavow using the last piece of tofu even after being informed that it would constitute your last meal of the day and the worst of all is the look of incredulity on their faces when they are confronted!

And, still no vegetables!

Well after five months of cohabiting-the child is gone!
Virtually nothing is in the way. There are no dishes in the sink and the avocado I was watching with an expert eye strangely remains in place. No towels are sprawled on the bathroom tile and the dining room table suffers only an occasional paw print on the newly polish wood.

I held my breath the day the child moved out. Bookcases careened down the stairs of the almost century old house leaving track marks and a few chips on the thick swirls of white paint that brightened the way. The journalist's multipurpose desk, a half moon measuring a good fourteen feet has left a vacancy in my formerly crowded upper office. There are no wires, except my paltry few, to trip over. I had moved my writer's wares and professorial junk into a corner of the room.

How did I do that? I never had enough room in the upper office. Now it is a sports stadium without a game.

I miss the unconscious bursts into my room and the commandeering of my 10 magnification mirror that holds center stage on my vanity.

The force to be reckoned with will occasionally pop in to sit endlessly at that mirror lamenting the tortures of TV journalism on the skin. I will hear what is going on in the studio-but now second hand. While the child was here I overheard calls from all over the world at all times of the day and night.

Margo Moon had said that she was sure I would miss the child when gone. I said no.

So I can be wrong sometimes!