C-Day Minus Three: Dorm Essentials
Choosing which items to buy and/or pack for my son’s rookie foray into post-secondary university housing should be simple. The items should be the ones I, his mother, choose.
After all, who knows better what he should have than I, his mother, myself a veteran of communal living quarters in the mid to late ’70s at Purdue University. That would be the same Purdue of Len Dawson, Bob Griese, Mike Phipps, Dave Butz, Drew Brees and Kyle Orton. And you can bet your spiral pass that those boys’ mothers chose their dorm essentials, too.
Last night my husband and my son’s father, who happen to be the same man, attempted to point out not only the errors in my choices but also the flaws in my reasoning. “I was an eighteen-year-old boy going away to college,” my husband declared, “and I know what he needs and what he’ll be branded a girlie man for having.”
This is a misguided primal need exhibited by fathers in order to protect their sons from the girlie man label and keep them steeped in the manly man category. Grunting and back slapping are optional.
And so it went.
A fan for cooling and proper air circulation. Won’t need one, quipped my husband. The dorm is air-conditioned. The fact that the thermostat is controlled by the university housing czar and that when winter comes could be set at 78 degrees is irrelevant.
A container for Q-tips. A cute but manly one that can sit atop his dresser along with assorted toiletries. Nope. A waste. Store brand sandwich-size baggies will do the job. Delirium. My son living out of baggies? Not happening.
Febreeze to simulate partially pleasant odors in his room as needed, particularly before a visit from parents. What for? Let him open the window and fan a towel to suck in the fresh air.
Face lotion. He can use body lotion, my husband insisted. No, he can’t. He needs special face lotion so he isn’t slathering additional muck on his expensive dermatologist-groomed face.
Antimicrobial pillow and mattress protectors to ward off foreign pathogens. Unnecessary. It’s like day care, my husband said. Expose the kid to as many germs as possible. It’ll build up his immunity. Over my dead menopausal body.
Storage organizers for his closet and drawers. To have a place for everything and keep everything in its place. What fantasy was I indulging, my husband gibed. This was the kid who has one storage receptacle. That being the floor space in front of his closet. I shot my husband The Look and added a multitiered storage cart to my shopping list.
But to keep his testosterone from hyperventilating, I’ll pass on the cucumber melon shower gel.
C-Day Minus Four
My eighteen-year-old son leaves for college in four days. Actually, his father, sister and I are leaving with him. We, however, will be returning home.
Preparations are going as well as can be expected.
My son is counting the days with a gusto that only eighteen-year-old hormones in anticipation of no curfew can exhibit.
His father is in recovery from calculating tuition, room and board and books.
I am trying to maintain some sort of balance between the blithering, menopausal no-it’s-too-soon-he’s-my-baby mom and the you-taught-him-well-now-let-him-fly mother.
And so I am preparing for his flight.
Since he’ll be three hours deep into the cornfields of west central Illinois with only a Walmart, KMart and Walgreens to which to turn for civilization, I am seeing to it that the boy has what his mother says he needs.
Ground zero is the basement ping pong table. Six open cardboard boxes await my packing instructions.
The extra-long sheet set which has, of course, been freshly laundered since how could anyone think of sleeping on sheets fresh out of the wrapper. One bunny soft blue blanket which he’ll need when it gets cold, he just doesn’t know it yet. A fluffy pad to give some ooomph to the piece of cardboard that university housing calls a mattress. And his old comforter because a new one won’t have embedded dog hair and cigar ashes to remind him of home.
Shower flip flops so at least his feet remain free of communicable diseases. Enough shampoo, shower gel, razors, deodorant and body spray to make it through Thanksgiving or my first visit, whichever comes first.
One large jar of peanut butter and an extra large bag of Tostitos (don’t ask) for when he sleeps through breakfast. Or lunch. Or supper.
Other assorted items which I decide between now and Saturday that he needs.
And those items which his father can see to it that he gets because I’m the mother and I refuse to acknowledge his need for such things.
Stay tuned.
Transatlantic Teenagers
I’ve never been to Europe. My husband hasn’t been to Europe since traveling with his German born-and-raised parents to visit family when he was thirteen.
Be that as it may, we decided to give our children an opportunity neither of us had.
The Teenagers are on a thirteen day tour of Europe with a school group. Twenty-one teenagers. Three chaperones. One tour guide. Germany. Italy. Switzerland. Paris. For fun. No grandparents and second cousins to visit. Just hormones and a legal drinking age of 16 for beer and wine and 18 for spirits.
Day 3:
I arrive home to a voice mail from my husband, who’s in Boston on business, sounding the alarm. His online check reveals that the 17-year-old’s checking account is down $330 in two days. The itinerary shows the group to be in Munich.
Quite certain that my two years of college German thirty years ago won’t cut it, I call my mother-in-law who lives in Connecticut and ask her to attempt contact with my daughter at the hotel in Munich. She calls back to confirm that the voice at the other end speaks English and that the group is just checking into the hotel.
I call. I hear the hotel clerk announce to a packed lobby of teenagers that “Hannah’s mother is calling.”
“Oh my gawd, I can’t believe my mom is calling.” I can feel the transatlantic eye roll.
No big deal about the $330. Her digital camera broke, so she just had to buy a new one. Uh huh. Oh and could we advance a few hundred out of her next paycheck?
As an aside, I ask why we haven’t heard from her brother or her before now. Like, to let us know they arrived safely two days ago? Pffft. She just hasn’t had time. I ask how her brother is. Fine, she thinks, but she really doesn’t “hang” with him so she’s not sure.
Day 4:
On arriving home from a relaxing dinner out, my husband and I hear a frantic voice mail from the 18-year-old. “Are you there? Could somebody pick up? I need money! You must put money in my checking account! Like now!”
I dial the number of the hotel in Italy. On the other end of the line is an Italian gentleman who speaks no English but has a wife who speaks German. He attempts to ask me, in broken German, if I speak German and if I can call back later to speak with his wife. My repeatedly shouting my son’s name, that I am his mother and that I am calling from THE UNITED STATES gets me a loud click.
A couple hours later my son calls saying his account needs funds. Cuban cigars and “a few hits” of Jack and Coke later, he finds his budget in need. And, he will need additional beverages, particularly over the next two days. It’s his turn to room with the classmate no one wants.
I remark that a few cigars can’t be that much. Well, the cigars come in a box, I am informed. And they’re Cuban. To the tune of 65 Euros or roughly 90 dollars. For Cuban suicide sticks that stink up his clothes.
Jack and Coke, I learn, is Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola.
Germany. Over 1300 German breweries, many of whom have been brewing beer since the Reinheitsgebot was enacted in 1516. And the boy is drinking Jack and Coke.
Day 5:
The 18-year-old calls to make sure we’ve deposited his paycheck that I, his mother, picked up from his summer employer. He comments on “the price of stuff” and asks if I’m having a good time without his sister and him.
Day 9:
The 17-year-old calls saying she accidentally broke her father’s suitcase and bought a new pink one to replace it. Pink because that’s her color. Wants to know if we’ll reimburse her since it wasn’t her fault that her dad’s “cheap” suitcase didn’t hold up to her TLC. And he won’t mind using a pink suitcase for business trips, will he?
She also alerts me to the fact that she may still have bloodshot eyes Friday when she returns. She had a little to drink and threw up. But don’t worry, she says. She’s learned her lesson.
Day 10:
The 17-year-old calls to announce that she found the t-shirt she bought for her dad at the bottom of her back pack. But before she found it she bought a hat since she didn’t want to come home without a gift. So could I put more money in her account for the hat and the pink suitcase?
The 18-year-old is evidently otherwise occupied since I’ve not heard from him since Day 5.
4,000 miles. $6,000.
Cuban cigars, Jack and Coke, bloodshot eyes and a pink suitcase.
Makes a mother proud.
