Temporary Roommates

The most concerning moment came when we thought the car had been stolen.

The children were home from college for winter break. Of course, we were happy to see them, needless to say. It’s just that they are no longer children, and I started noticing some, well, irregularities in our otherwise carefully ordered lives.

Our numbers had doubled overnight, let’s be clear. When, not long ago, we were two people, now we were four. If I turned around too abruptly, I knocked into a college student. If I needed to use one of two bathrooms in our home, both were always occupied.

If I wandered down the hallway, every light was on in every room. I found this slightly perplexing because the rooms were always empty (unlike the bathrooms).

Every towel in every bathroom was damp, as though an army of individuals had just taken turns showering. I noticed dirty dishes in the sink and used pans on the stove, just like old times. It made me think I should check their homework.

And then we thought the car had been stolen. My husband went out to the garage to leave for work, only to find that we had one car in the garage, instead of the customary two cars. He backed his way back into the house.

“Where’s the car?”

“What?”

“The car is gone.”

We stared at each other for a minute, stupefied.

Then our son stumbled into the kitchen, sleep-numb and mumbling apologetically. He had used the car the night before and left it on the driveway. He assumed it was still there.

Something very strange happens when children live away at school, but return periodically, not as the children they were, but as near adults who are as befuddled by all the changes in roles as their parents are.

They don’t have bedrooms in the house anymore, so are not able to slip snugly back into their prior physical spaces. They tend to make abrupt, loud noises that make me jump when I would otherwise remain stationary.

They are home for a while, but mentally, they are thinking about what just happened at school, who they’re dating, who is in town that they know, and what they need to do the moment they get back to campus.

On the parents’ side, we are thinking that we need more groceries, that the utility bills are skyrocketing, and that we don’t know much about these two people who are visiting.

They’ve changed, and we’ve changed. We are not the center of their worlds, and they are no longer the center of ours. They have things they want to do, and we have things we want to do.

But on Christmas morning, we will repeat the ritual that we’ve repeated for 21 years now, except that we will all drink gourmet coffee, instead of just we adults. We are all adults now.

The children won’t drag us out of bed at 5:30 in the morning because they can’t wait a moment longer to open their gifts. We will each wake at our own pace, and then have to wake my daughter, who sleeps like the dead.

They won’t run madly into the living room to find a special gift from Santa covered in wrapping paper that they have never seen before, and snuggled next to a half-eaten cookie and an empty milk glass. They deciphered the Santa mystery years ago and then maintained pretenses for two more years so as not to disillusion their young cousin.

I will have to make a point of using the bathroom while they are opening their gifts.

Of course it is lovely to have them home. Nothing makes me happier than listening to the two of them sharing stories and laughing, always joyful and content in each others' company.

I count the ease of their relationship as one of the main triumphs of my tenure on this earth.

The car was not stolen. I will switch off lights as I make my way through the house. I will order more gourmet coffee.

And I will miss them when they leave.