Son number two has been gone for 48 hours now. I still haven't plucked up the courage to go in his room, and as time goes on, I am only putting off the inevitable. I am not talking about the emotional upset of going in there. Please don't picture me face down on his bed, inhaling the smell of him while my tears soak his pillow. No, it's more the level of mould on the old mugs of tea which are bound to be residing on his windowsill. A quick headcount of the mugs has revealed that I am two short. Perhaps tomorrow....
He has only phoned me once so far. This was to ask for money and happened about four hours after we left him. I've heard nothing since. I know he's still alive, as I can see when he has been on facebook last. I remember doing this with daughter number one when she first went off to the fleshpots of Crew some years ago. Why is it that we think that something is going to happen to our children as soon as they are out of earshot? Thankfully, I have learned from the other three that no call equals happy, so I will welcome the silence for the time being. God help him if he doesn't call before the weekend though. There will be trouble, I can tell you.
Son number one has returned to university for his final year, hanging up his smart shirts which he wore for his internship in London, now preferring the scratch and sniff approach towards his t-shirts. ELL, son number two's girlfriend, is at the same university, and has promised to keep an eye on him for us. I did feel that it should have been the other way round, what with her being in her first year, but as she is substantially more sensible than him, perhaps it is the right way round after all.
We continue to house daughter number one, who is between homes at the moment. What is worrying me is that she is rather enjoying the clean piles of washing which appear regularly at the end of her bed. She also likes the cup of tea which is popped on her dressing table at 6.00am each morning. The husband thinks that I am making it look too attractive here, and that she will never go. I am prepared though. If her new home isn't ready by Christmas, I'm going to start hiding dog biscuits in her duvet. The frenzy of schnauzer activity and wet noses being thrust in places where they shouldn't be should ensure a rapid exit.
And then there's daughter number two. Ensconced in her flat and holding down a very fascinating job in pensions (these are her words, not mine). Her LSB (Long Suffering Boyfriend) has just returned from a thigh-slapping, beer-drinking weekend in Germany. I like to think that at some time while he was there, he may have slipped on a pair of lederhosen. I imagine that these are tricky to put on, especially if they're on the snug side, and possibly a bit like those awful surgical stockings they make you wear after an operation. I wish that they would make these look a bit more attractive. How about a leg version of a tattoo sleeve? Now that's something I would be proud to show off.
This coming weekend, these four wonderful adults are having a night out together. It's fantastic knowing that not only do they miss each other, but that they actually enjoy each other's company.
The husband and I are banned from this night out.
Can't imagine why...