gone boy

Alexander decides to become a History major in his senior year.  

Now he has to take four History classes plus one Science to graduate. To fulfill the science requirement, Alexander will be studying plants in Ithaca for the next two weeks: six days a week, three hours a day. So instead of relaxing and hanging out with friends, my son returns to school today, as classes start tomorrow.  Poor baby.

Yesterday we made a plan.

"How about tomorrow we watch Grand Budapest Hotel together?"  Alexander suggests.  We were going to do this yesterday but there were football playoffs and friends to see.  

This morning Alexander finally gets up around 11:30.  His bus leaves at 4:10.  But he needs to shower. Shave. Pack. Oh, and there's another playoff game. And something needs to be picked up at a friend's house. And there are lots of other things to do. We don't watch the movie.  We don't hang out.  We barely speak.

I make Alexander a little going away present to keep in his desk as a daily reminder:

He thinks it's funny.  I hope it's effective.

I walk with Alexander to the bus stop, after promising not to take his picture in front of the Cornell bus.  "You are so embarrassing.  Don't make me look like a freshman." So the doorman takes a photo of us. That he agrees to.

All the way to the bus stop Alexander reminds me that I am not allowed to take any pictures. But fortunately, there is no one else boarding the bus at this stop (the bus also picks up at the Cornell Club) so I'm reluctantly permitted a photo.

It'll be nice to have my space back.  Yesterday I was thrown out of my living room. I went to sit down in a chair that Alexander has claimed as his, and was told, "I view this as an act of aggression. You're like Russia taking control over someone else's space."

It'll be nice to go to bed before three, as I won't be waiting up for Alexander to return home from a night out with friends.

It'll be nice to not see when my son is not looking for a job.  

It'll be nice to not hear, "When are we going to eat?"  "What's for dinner?" "We are out of bread." (My son eats a loaf of bread daily and is still thin). 

It'll be nice to not feel like a nag since I won't be asking, "Can you please put your dishes in the dishwasher?"  "Don't you think you should get up now?" "What time will you be home?" "Why are there three half-drunk water bottles in the fridge?"

But it won't be nice to not have my son around to talk to, to laugh with, and to see smile.

I am already looking forward to Alexander's next visit home.  As soon as I recover from this one.