My firstborn has left the nest for the second time, moving 230 miles away. This attempt looks like it might be more permanent than the first try. This time, there’s a job lined up, a lease signed, a car owned, and roommates who seem less sketchy than the previous group.
The two of us drove up last week with two loaded vehicles. And I returned alone with an empty minivan, after having carried many boxes, surreptitiously recorded the license plate numbers of the roommates, and inspected the rental house, declaring the basement suitable for tornado sheltering.
The last couple of weeks before departure, I fretted over whether I had given all of the advice I needed to for navigating adult life. I became prone to randomly blurting out directives as they popped into my mind:
Oil changes every 5,000 miles.
Late fees are expensive. Pay your bills on time.
Don’t bank with Wells Fargo!
Calculate the price of toilet paper by the square foot and not by the roll.
Keep hot foods hot and cold foods cold. And don’t buy romaine lettuce until they give the all clear.
If you see Pyrex anything at a garage sale, snap it up.
Voting is a super power. Make sure you use it for good.
I’m sure more will occur to me as time goes by. But ultimately, I’m sure my kid will figure life out by living it, as the rest of us do. Then, too, we’re still on the same family phone plan and can make liberal use of messaging apps.
Gotta go. I need to fire off a text about duct tape before I forget.