The other day I noticed a new library book on the coffee table. It belonged to my mother and bore the title “How to Raise Your Adult Children: Because Big Kids Have Even Bigger Problems.”
Could it be that I…?
Obviously my brother was to blame. (My brother is always to blame, just ask me and I will tell you.) Because I am the perfect tenant. I pay my rent on time, I do the dishes almost every day and I’ve gotten way better about my weekly vacuuming duties. I still leave my shoes/scarves/sweatshirts in the living room on occasion (okay, daily) but the point is, it takes maturity to move back in with one’s parents.
Especially my parents.
It’s all about sharing, or at least being polite about not sharing:
It’s about taking ownership of your responsibilities and your leftovers, especially when they’re stored in a recycled yogurt container:
You have to respect the property of others, or at the very least wait until they’re not looking to raid the cabinets:
(For this next one, I should explain that we call our dad “Spop” in the Richter household and no, I don’t know why.)
And finally, you need to know where your mother hides her dark chocolate. (It’s at the base of the wine rack, in case you were wondering, right below the Cab Sav.)
So obviously the library book about raising your “adult” children has something to do with my brother. Or maybe my dad, because as you can see, I’m getting along just fine.