As hard as it was to see my son take off for the university, you'd think I'd be thrilled to have him back home. You'd think.
It is amazing how quickly the old man and I converted to a new way of living. And how resistant we are to reverting to accommodate the son we have renamed "The Interloper."
Our battles are the classic ones between the generations.
Clothes: The Interloper seems to think I should wear them.
Music: Gone are Amy Grant and Barbara Streisand. Gone are Manhattan Transfer and the Irish Tenors. Instead there is noise everywhere, and it doesn't just come from the stereo. It comes from the computer, the television, the radio, and The Interloper's mouth. Sometimes noise comes from all these places at one time and it can appear that no one but me is noticing. Then there are the musical discussions with The Interloper that I have missed so much (insert eye roll here). Discussions of genres and lyrics and genres and performers and genres this and genres that.
Food: The old man and I have become used to eating when we want and what we want without even considering each other, much less The Interloper. Now, each day, I get a question that includes the words "dinner plan." As in, "What's the dinner plan?" or "Do we have a dinner plan?" It seems distressing to The Interloper that we seldom have a "dinner plan," whatever that is.
Cars: The Interloper says, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Okay." The Interloper says again, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Have a good time, honey." The Interloper says, "I thought you might like to drive me." I say, "You think funny."
The Interloper is useful on occasion. He knows how to fix me a glass of ice water the way I like it. In about six weeks, I'm going to be awfully thirsty again.