JIGGITY JIG

Ever hear of the Mother Goose rhyme HOME AGAIN, HOME, AGAIN, JIGGITY JIG? It's a cute little ditty, especially if it's only in a book, and not being lived out in real life.

Enter: MY KID. Uh... guess who jiggity jigged right smack back home? And, at way older age than I'd ever have thought, too. Turns out he and his roommates decided not to renew their rental house, which if you ask me was probably the smartest move any of them ever made. But... that's a whole other story. THIS story is about how an empty nested Mother learns to live with her son once again.

Oh yeah... as a heads' up. It's easy. JUST DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOUR KID WANTS YOU TO DO.

Well, within reason, anyway. On the other hand, that is SO not how it works in my house. The good news however is... I adore my kid and we enjoy each other's company; thus I have no problem having him here. For a spell, anyway. He's neat. He's helpful. He does all the manly jobs. He obeys most rules. And basically, he's a fabulous kid. Who could ask for more?

Well... his future wife, for one. Whomever she may turn out to be. I am telling you... this kid is going to make someone a fanTAStic husband. That's the good news. The bad news is: she had SO better be ready to endure the craziest crap ever. As in: RULES. His rules.

Case in point: my son demands to do his own laundry. Now that's a twist on motherhood, if ever there was. He's not insisting upon it because he feels he's grown, responsible, capable, etc. No. He insists upon it because I DON'T DO IT THE RIGHT WAY. Huh?? Since when?? Is that a joke?? Apparently there are hordes of rules about how to wash and dry his workout clothes. Half of them can't go into the dryer, for instance. Instead they need to air dry. And to DO SO?? Wanna guess where they have to hang? FLUNG OVER ALL MY DINING ROOM CHAIRS, that's where!!

In fact, look up at the picture above. Yeah... that's his clothesline of choice!! MY ENTIRE DINING ROOM IS FILLED WITH GYM SHORTS HANGING OFF EVERY ONE OF THE CHAIRS!! My OWN mother would have killed me. But for my son? A PERFECT SOLUTION. Don't ask. And the OTHER half of the clothing has to be put in the dryer for an exact, specified amount of time, and with softener sheets only. No laundry balls allowed. Geez.

A couple other rules include that: 1.) I HOP RIGHT TO IT IMMEDIATELY when it's time to replace a full recycling bag with a new one. HUH? I'M NOW ON A TIMER?? 2.) I need to leave the dish towel spread ALL THE WAY OUT, covering my stunning granite countertops, just to be up and ready 24/7 for use as a drying mat 3.) I stock ONLY fresh veggies given anything refrigerated longer than 2 days will lose it's firmness and 4.) I should reserve and maintain plenty of room in my refrigerator to house my kid's 9 varieties of salad dressings. ALL AT ONE TIME, mind you. Is he NUTS?? You should SEE all the flavors he has going, here. I won't even get into a discussion of temperature settings on the thermostat or the need to hear Howard Stern 24/7. Suffice it to say: I almost feel as if I have TWO sons living here in my house.

Now, I'm pretty good at following rules. I actually LIKE living by rules. They help to keep my grounded and organized. However, I'm also sort of used to their being MY rules of thumb. Not my kid's. So, as a heads' up to all parents who find their children moving back home for a spell, all I can tell you is: UH... GOOD LUCK. You'll probably need it.

Unless you're like me. And decide to choose your  battles, letting the other stuff slide. It's your ticket to sanity, trust me. Besides... if I REALLY wanted to do battle it would DEFINITELY be over the 5 foot boa who also moved in with sonny boy. Don't even f-ing ask... I want to shoot the damn thing so badly, I can't even tell you. I'm just too afraid to even go near it. NEW RULE: Find reptile hit man.