When are they going to move out?

Let me stop cleaning up spit-up for a second so I can post something here.

I’ve been rererereading Erma Bombeck since the baby was born, mostly because it’s already in the house and I can read a paragraph at a time while I have a moment to myself (on the toilet) and I identify with things I didn’t identify with before.

When are they going to move out?

Why is there exploded BBQ chicken in the microwave from someone’s midnight snack that they didn’t bother covering?

Why is the bathroom sink covered in a layer of black tar?

Is the sugar all over the kitchen floor a trap?  And when the same child who laid it announces that there are fruit flies in the house again, why is she surprised?

How come I’m spending more money on the child now that she has a job making $8.70 an hour?  Many adults pay their mortgage on less.  And yet it’s “Mom, can I have money for food?”  even though she’s gone for 2 hours and gets 14 breaks and the refrigerator is overflowing with food.

And at the same time I have this irrational fear that they will move out and I’ll be LONELY and BORED and having nothing to fill up my time except for sighing and living in the memories of all the good times we had together.  I will wake up slowly in the mornings and miss having a heart attack when I roll over to find a child hanging over me waiting for me to open my eyes so they can tell me that their sister sucks.

I will miss the company in the bathroom.

I will miss texting all their friends when they don’t come home on time.

I will have to clean the kitty litter by myself because they promised to do it if I got the 28th cat they dragged home because it was soooooo cute and if they left it, it would be homeless and starving.  Wait, I already clean the kitty litter.

I will stare longingly at the empty back seat of my car where all their sweatshirts, food wrappers, and pillow used to live.

I may even start talking to myself (again), but this time in a nagging way.  “Get your dirty socks out of the couch.  Why is there a big glob of peanut butter behind that chair?  Did a tornado hit your room today?”  That kind of thing.  Just because I miss it so much and I would hate to have wasted all that time practicing my angry mom face.

My shoes will be too clean and I’ll have to shove them on without untying them and slosh around in the mud in the garden, then leave them in the garage, just to feel loved and wanted again, because I’m sure that’s why the girls borrow my shoes–to show how much they appreciate me.

I could go on and on but I have to go to work now to pay for their 10 pound bags of Swedish Fish and bags of new socks because all of theirs have disappeared.




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