The youngest of Adam's group of friends just turned 19. In these parts, that is legal drinking age.
Oooo! They're Grown-Ups now!
They're gathering here, prior to going out to a local pub and have dinner. A dinner complete with drinks for everyone. Very civilized, say I. A totally grown-up way to celebrate a birthday.
Dinner, however, is not going to be for a whole TWO HOURS, a full FIVE HOURS since their last meal. Their ever-ravenous selves can't possibly go that long between meals, so they are making themselves a "snack". Perhaps not so grown-up, after all.
No snatch-and-grab junk food for these people, though. They are MAKING ACTUAL FOOD, from SCRATCH! Is that grown-up, or what?
I ask Adam to see that the kitchen is clean before they all leave. Sure, he nods, recognizing a reasonable request. See? Grown up!
Except he forgets.
The mess that greets me the next morning is purest adolescent mayhem. Pasta sauce blots speckle the stovetop and the side of the fridge, and coat the bottom of a saucepan with tarry black sludge. Another pot sits half-full of pasta-starchy water. The counters are littered with bowls, spoons, glasses, full, empty, and in-between. The floor is gritty in some spots, sticky in others.
Huh. When you think about this objectively, it's truly bizarre. What adult would even think of doing this, for a split second?
You trash someone's home and then LEAVE?
Not grown up.
You leave, without even THINKING of the person who's kitchen you've just TRASHED?
NOT grown up.
You leave, oblivious to the fact that SOMEONE ELSE will be cleaning up YOUR mess?
NOT grown up AT. ALL.
Well, I sure as hell am not cleaning it. If I could get all eight of them back in here, you know I'd be doing it. Lucky for the rest of them, they've gone home. However, one of the little buggers -- my very own son, fruit of my loins -- is sleeping blissfully downstairs.
I wake him up. Seven in the bright-and-early morning, hours before his usual waking time (sleeping past noon, btw, is NOT grown up) to clean.
He, who has been to a pub the night before, is not hung over. (Grown up!)
He gets up without complaint (Grown-up!)
He listens attentively (if sleepily) while I direct him in the best way to tackle a thoroughly trashed room. (Grown-up!)
He has it in good order in 20 minutes, chatting amiably to me the whole while. He does not seem to notice that, beyond suggesting the method of attack, I am not helping at all. He certainly isn't resenting it. So grown-up.
So.
The way I break it down, I see...
Kid: Five
Grown up: Nine
On balance, he's not doing too badly, my boy. Er, man.
nice! very nice! you totally are ahead here.
Posted by: the planet of janet | January 02, 2009 at 07:47 PM
Not hungover? Good for him! That may be worth more than one point in his favor.
Love the graphic! I catch myself saying, "I'm your mother, not your maid!"
Posted by: Daisy | January 03, 2009 at 11:10 AM
Janet - Thanks. That's what I keep telling myself...
Daisy - The graphic is a link to its source. If you want the t-shirt, just follow the link! We have a fridge magnet that says, "M is for Mother, not Maid." (Unfortunately, 'M' is really for both, and we all know it.)
Posted by: Ilona | January 04, 2009 at 10:58 AM