Slam. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Clap clap. “Hellooooo all!” And I make my entrance.
That’s a lot of hullaballoo for an entrance into my own family room, right? But we’ve entered the teenaged years. The teenaged-with–girlfriend years. Oy.
I find myself going up and down my stairs enough for it to qualify as aerobic activity. As I politely give my son and his girlfriend some couch time alone in front of the television, my mommy timer sets itself. In 10 minutes, I “realize” I’ve forgotten my book downstairs.
Clomp, clomp. Ahem. Cough, cough. Clomp, clomp, clomp. I have become the Queen of Onomatopoeia in my own house. “Oh look, HERE it is. My book. I’ll just take this back upstairs,” I say cheerily.
In another 15 or so, I find I am deathly thirsty. Clomp, clomp. Ahem. Cough. Yell for dog. “I’m just PARCHED. Would anyone else like some tea?” No takers. I head back upstairs with my teacup, which gives me an excuse to return shortly thereafter to put it in the dishwasher.
It seems not so long ago I was on the other side of the equation. Nothing ages you like realizing your stair stomping sounds much like your mother’s did.
I guess it’s just a new phase of life for me to get used to, just like I did with teething, toddlers and tantrums. Only this phase seems painfully short (short overall—but the evenings themselves can seem to last forEVER). My eldest will head to college in the fall, where I won’t be around to interrupt any couch canoodling. I think I’ll save worrying about that for another time and place.
As always, I welcome any and all advice from the seasoned parenting veterans out there. You lived through it, so I guess I will.
But in the meantime, I must sign off.
It’s far too quiet downstairs.