But we don’t.
In a few days, the boy one will be returning to Indy to begin an internship. He’s planning to stay at The Palace of Rules because they have a lot more space over there. I dunno how long that will last, but I think it’s kinda sweet, since MIL cared for him as a baby. Like a fledgling returning to the nest for a final shove. “Circle Game” and “Comin Around Again” — that sorta thing.
I’m mildly concerned about how long he can go without alcohol, screaming swears at video games, and being chided for not calling when he’s out late, or God forbid, if he forgets to set the alarm! I’m looking forward to MIL’s complaints that his scaredy-cat she’ll never see is up there not affecting her world in any way, but that’s not what this post is about.
Okay, so I totally want him to live in our dining room, or the coat closet, or whatever, but then I think about all the fucking cords, and I think, nah, palace of rules, much mo bettah, is best thing for you, maybe you come adult here on weekends…
His hope is to get a permanent position locally — we’ll all be so pleased.
As I mentioned in this post, my MIL has a knack for asking questions I cannot answer. Lately, she asks questions The Mister can’t answer either. In fact, many people do.
“Where’s the internship?”
“Oh I dunno, some place on the east side.”
“You don’t know?”
“I think it’s off Shadeland somewhere.”
“No, I mean, what company?”
“Oh, I dunno.”
“How did he find out about this job?”
“Some internet site.”
“What’s he going to do there?”
“Computer stuff. I dunno.”
I realize it sounds like we’re not interested, but in all honesty, we try not to pry too much into the lives of our children. If they want us to know things, they tell us. If they want to hide things from us, we allow them privacy. Until we see red flags, we just assume everything is kosher. We prefer not to micromanage and interrogate them, as we do not like to be micromanaged and interrogated. We want them to be independent and resourceful, and we want them to learn to set boundaries. We value freedom. We’re open.
We can only be who we are.
In turn, Bubba can only be who he is, which is a lovely contradiction — Is he open or closed? He’s an all-shut hermit who keeps things to himself, or a hilarious non-stop talker about things he’s passionate about. Translation: Introvert.
We want to enjoy the hell out of our kids, and we’ve learned to choose our battles wisely. We don’t ask a lot of questions of our adult children. The standard, “How are you?” “Whatcha been doin?” “How are your grades?” — that stuff is parent-y enough. I mean, he’s doing an internship, not getting bailed out of jail!
He was hard to raise, I mean really, really hard. I mean there were times I thought I couldn’t keep doing it. He was my squeaky wheel. My biggest challenge. Bright, sensitive children are so much harder. The highs are higher, the lows are lower. Oh, how I fretted over him.
He’s made it easier to raise Sassy. That’s a really big gift he’s given me. Most importantly, he’s made his way through so many circumstances, I’m compelled to trust his judgment.
I wouldn’t let him get on the bus without reciting his room number, his teacher’s name, our names, our address, our phone numbers…but now? Oh how things change.
So no, we dunno where he’s going to work, company or location, for how long, what he’s doing exactly, if it’s paid or unpaid, or if he needs new clothes. We know that if something comes up and he needs help, he’ll ask.
Probably at the last minute.
Because he’s an adult, not a grown-up.