Moving The Kid Home . . .

I’ll date myself by admitting I have a college-aged kido.

I don’t know how she got that old . . . or how I got this old—Yippes, I really need to figure out time travel or at least how to pay for plastic surgery.

The start of the school year was grueling, and for those who lived the turbulent first weeks with me, THANKS for helping me keep my sanity or, at least, finding it when it went missing. It’s impossible to believe an entire school year has passed and suddenly, it’s time to move the kid home again.

On move-out day, we girded ourselves with gas in the tank (way too expensive gas, but that’s for another blog), bottled water and as much fast food as we could stomach and still get our jeans to zip, then headed for Texas A and M. Our trip down was a little slower than my college-age kido normally makes the trip. Could have been the lumbering gait of my 13-year-old van or the fact I don’t drive with my foot through the gas pedal. Despite our slow progress, we managed to hit campus, find a parking place (something just short of a Divenchy miracle) and still arrive at her dorm only slightly behind schedule. I don’t dwell too much on being on time; it simply demands that I stay on schedule and leave when I’m supposed to. Where’s the fun in that?

Did I mention she hadn’t packed before we arrived? Oh wait, there was a suitcase full of clothes and one bag of who knows what thrown together. I suddenly understood her tremendous desire for our speed. She was waiting for the sucker packers—occasionally known as ‘family’—to arrive.

My child and I have different packing strategies—to put it mildly. She wants everything perfectly organized, bubble-wrapped, labeled, and placed for quick recovery. My answer to her wants: I sent her out to get lunch. My packing may not be organized, but it was done—quickly! Hey, nothing broke in the trip home. Of course, there has been the unloading dilemma. She can’t quite understand why her cans of soups were packed inside her socks. Simple—they didn’t rattle around that way. She didn’t get the whole alarm clock, toothbrush and fuzzy slippers in the same bag, either. Hello? Morning stuff! I thought she learned something in college. Maybe learning a packing regiment is for her sophomore year.

Has she found everything yet? Nope. After all, there has to be some parental justice in this world. My goal is to torture my children as often as possible. Did I mention, I’m really good at it?

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