Bye Bye Birdie

Yes, I know my son was away at college for four years before he moved back home. Yes, I know he's old enough and competent enough to make it on his own.

Yes, I know it's time.

Still, I miss the rotten kid.

Last Sunday, the two of us had breakfast, and he regaled me with tales of his trip to France. (He just got back Saturday night.) I sat there listening, trying to memorize every detail, soaking in the familiar atmosphere of our favorite local diner. Keep the coffee coming, I want to burn this into my memory banks.

Afterward, we did the weekly grocery shopping, and I let him pick out food and such for his first week in his new digs.

Later, when his girlfriend, Jill, arrived, we loaded up the three cars with bins of stuff and headed over to his new abode.

Our first hurdle was parking. He doesn't have driveway privileges, so we had to park on the street. Or, more accurately in this case, across the street.

The second hurdle was getting in. He had a key. But there was a keypad on the front door.

He didn't know the code.

While his dad did the dad thing ("Didn't you notice the keypad when you looked at the place? Do you have your lease agreement, is it on there?"), Joe frantically called the landlord, then the landlord's dad, until he finally reached one of them and got the number.

Then we got to the stairs. His apartment is on the third floor.

Schlep, schlep, schlep, we dragged each of his worldly goods up countless stairs to reach the top of Mount Crumpet and dump it.

Between trips, Mr. Ginley and I sat and panted for awhile before heading back down for the next load. Admittedly, we let the youngsters do more of the heavy lifting. That's the way it should be, after all. Over breakfast, Joe had told me he walked all over Paris. So I reminded him that he was in much better shape than his mother, who had only roamed the halls at work, while he was there, across the pond, having a good old time.

But I digress. Which I do well.

Once the cars had been divested of their goods, we sat and chatted for a bit. Joe's apartment is what realtors would term "cozy" or "cute." Meaning small. Very small. But also adorable. Nooks and crannies and personality galore. I went back in time in my own mind, remembering my first solo digs, sitting with a cat in my lap in the rocking chair in the summer, drinking tea and enjoying the evening breeze.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ginley fretted over the lack of space, making suggestions on what could go where. (Have I ever mentioned he has excellent spatial skills?)

The two young folks listened politely with their parent filters on.

It was time to go.

As we waved goodbye and pulled away from the curb, I couldn't help feeling both excited for Joe and sad for us. I like having the kid around. He's fun and sweet and smart, in an absent-minded professor kind of way.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

On Tuesday, Joe's friend, Kyle, arrived with his truck to move the stuff that wouldn't fit in the car.

There is still work to be done. Both at the new apartment (assembling furniture) and here. Surveying Joe's former room last night, it didn't look abandoned. There is still a ton of stuff that needs to be packed up and put away until his next move. Mr. Ginley and I are planning on taking over his room, which is significantly larger than ours.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to breakfast tomorrow morning.

The bird has flown, but I hope he won't be a stranger to the old nest.