You First

Pre-parenthood, Labor Day always meant "yippee, long weekend."  Since parenthood, Labor Day has always meant "thank God, they're going back to school." When the sons of the SJG were young, summer was a long haul.  Basketball camp.  Surf camp.  Friends sleeping over.  Friends never going home.  Staying up late.  And noise.  So much noise.  Loud TVs.  Loud music.  Loud everything.  By Labor Day, I was pretty much out of my mind, anxious to get them back on a schedule.  All the schlepping to school, all the homework, all the dioramas and posters and book reports.  The vocabulary quizzes.  The hell of math class.  My attitude was this:  Bring it.  The only thing I wanted in life was an empty house.  Give me a few hours to myself and I will be happy.  These days, Back to School means a different kind of schlep.  Up north to Santa Cruz.  A carload of stuff to fill the college boy's first apartment.  The one he'll be occupying solo.  This summer brought roommate drama, the dissolution of a friendship, and all the regret and mixed feelings that come along for the ride.  It went down, as these things do, quickly.  The aftermath has been challenging.  Character-building, as his grandpa would say.  But now the college boy is ready.  Ready for the ultimate bachelor pad, the place where his friends -- all living in houses eight or nine dudes deep -- can come chill and play Fifa.  The SJG?  Not ready.  Not ready at all.  Can't quite wrap my mind around it.  But I will.  I'm sure I will.  About half-way through the year, it's going to click.  I just know it.  Till then, I'll have to do some work on myself.  Cling less. Let go. You first.