i’m not ready…

“Mom, don’t wash any of my clothes. I’m saving up all of my dirty laundry and I’m going to wash it right before I leave on my trip.”

Nic is referring to the fourteen hour road trip he has been planning for several months, with three other eighteen year old boys. Over the July Fourth weekend. To a large convention. In a major city. No parents allowed.

I realize I’ve never taught my youngest son how to pack for a trip. My older two sons spent their childhood traveling back and forth between me and their dad, but not this son. His dad is here, with me. With him. And we traveled, for sure. But I’ve always packed for him. I’ve always been there. For. Him.

There are still so many things I have to teach him.

I take a deep breath to steady my voice before I attempt to rationally converse with my eighteen year old son about why he plans to hoard dirty laundry for the next six days.

Nic, exactly when do y’all plan to leave for the convention?

“At one in the morning on Thursday, that way we will miss rush hour traffic, have an hour for lunch, take three twenty minute pit stops, and arrive at our hotel exactly at check-in time.”

Did I mention Nic is eighteen going on fifty? Yeah. He is.

And holy sheep shit. Hubs is gonna jump out of his skin when he hears these kids are leaving in the middle of the night. HA! And Hubs thought this trip would never happen. I knew all along this trip would not only happen, but it would be as well planned as Kardashian wedding. Okay. I’m grinning, but just for a second.

I take another deep breath and ponder the more immediate issues at hand: dirty clothes hoarding and packing skills…

Well Nic, why don’t you bring me all of your dirty clothes now, and I’ll wash them. Then, the day before you leave I’ll help you wash and fold everything. That way all of your clothes will be fresh for your trip. That’s how I’ve always packed for trips. Does that sound good to you?

“Great idea Mom. Thanks.”

And then I watched as Nic made three trips from his bedroom to the laundry room, each time with an overflowing hamper of dirty clothes.

I remind myself, it’s either this or he’ll be living in a trailer with a chain smoking baby momma.

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