Welcome Back to USC
High School Kid and I helped move College Kid into his new apartment at USC and I feel like throwing up. What a colossal wimp. You’d think I’d be getting better at this. After all, it’s the second time we’ve schlepped the clothes, computer, linens, lamp and everything else College Kid needed into the back of the car and unloaded at school.
The day began smoothly. We arrived early for check-in and the lines to pick up move-in packets were short. We explored the 2 bedroom – 1 bath apartment that he’ll share with three other guys and debated the pros and cons of each bedroom. Then we got down to business and set up his printer like we were techs from Geek Squad and made his bed neater than a marine. We even managed to avoid the cash-depleting, mind-numbing Bed, Bath and Beyond run because everything still works from last year.
There’s already a last year and that may very well be why I’m searching for Dramamine.
The three of us went to lunch and I pretended to be hungry as I scanned the menu. When I peeked up at the fellas, they seemed subdued. “I don’t like the music,” High School kid remarked.
“I don’t either,” College Kid agreed.
They didn’t recognize Bob Dylan’s “The Times They are Changing.”
Summer is over. I know you know. I say it to myself so I can make light of the mild dread creeping in. Seeing the bed made and the clothes hung in College Kid’s apartment brought the realization down like a ton of textbooks.
The lazy days of piling onto the couch to watch Breaking Bad together and swimming for hours are over for now. Vacation is behind us. Sure we fight from time to time and we get snarky and short and say some choice words we wish we hadn’t. But those moments are so easily forgotten.
The feeling of being there for one another is not. Summertime we tell and retell embarrassing stories about each other, play ping-pong until it’s too dark to see the ball and frequently find ourselves on frozen yogurt runs.
I’m sure I’ll get used to setting the table for one less person. Eventually I’ll acclimate to the quiet house. And if I don’t, did I mention that College Kid’s apartment is a mere thirty minutes away, door-to-door?
Nobody said I was any good at cutting umbilical cords.