Enough Already

Diddle diddle dumpling my son John

Went to bed with his trousers on

One shoe off the other shoe on

Diddle diddle dumpling my son John

What’s a mother to do with a son like that?  He’s twenty-eight years old.  The pandemic descends; he calls to say his school is closing, can he come and live with you for a few weeks until he can decide what to do.

John has issues.  This you’ve always known.  He didn’t have the stick-to-itivness of your other children.  Take the oldest.  She sells BMW’s.  During the pandemic do you think she’s making any money?  Like, who’s buying cars now?  Does she complain?  Not to you.  And now she’s home-schooling three children, while her husband, a radiologist, waits around for people to get X-rays or whatever it is he reads.  He’s also not making the big bucks, as everyone is terrified of heading to a hospital.

Your middle child?  Okay, he’s doing well.  You thought he was insane when, after being laid off at his marketing firm, he and a colleague pooled their money and bought a bike shop. A bike shop, for godsakes.  Who rides a bike anymore?  Little did you know.  Too bad BMW didn’t make bikes, maybe your daughter could have gotten in on the ride.

And John?  At twenty-eight he was still finding himself, right now finding himself back home.  How many false starts had John made in his life.  You sent him to college, he majored in sociology.  Was that even a major anymore?  He decided he wanted to be a pastry chef, but then there was that incident with the rolling pin that cost you a ton for a lawyer.  Onward to a teacher’s certificate, where he thought he might be able to teach social studies and coach soccer at the same time.  This was a promising start to a real career, derailed when he punched a parent making too many derogatory remarks about his team.  And now—school to become a medical tech.  Your husband always said, as the years passed, “When is he going to make something of himself?” And you’d reply because he was your baby, “Give him time. He’ll find the right path—eventually.”

And so he did—find the path—right back in his old bedroom, doing nada, not looking for a job, not even continuing his studies on line.  He’s suddenly decided that medicine right now was too dangerous.  He’d find something he’d be more committed to.  Like maybe organic farming.  “Life’s too short to work at something you don’t love,” he told you.

How would you know.  You had worked too many years as a dental technician to put the kids through college, still working  so that you and your husband could have an interesting retirement.  That’s if your husband stopped working in construction, which didn’t look likely.  With everyone staying  home, they all found remodeling projects they put off for years that needed to be done immediately.  Your husband even offered John a job deconstructing a living room wall, but John came home and said the dust bothered his asthma.  Since when had John had asthma?

“We can’t just kick him out,” you were prone to saying.  Because when a child’s your child, you’re responsible.  Aren’t you?

“Every day I come home to find him slopping around the house aimlessly,” your husband complained.

“He says he’s thinking.”

“Yeah, well I’m thinking too.  Let him borrow a bike from his brother and start making deliveries.”

You know your husband is right.  You are an enabler.  But how to break this cycle of John’s dependence?

You suppose the crisis came when you opened the cabinet to have your nightly bourbon and discovered the cupboard was bare.  The bottle was missing.  Since your husband never drank, there could be only one answer.

More in sorrow than in anger, you went to your son’s childhood bedroom and opened the door after knocking softly.  Yeah, there was John, lying in bed, cradling your bourbon bottle, trousers still on, one shoe resting on the newly laundered duvet cover, while the other shoe had slipped off his foot.

Oh so gently you removed the shoe still on his foot and eased his legs together.  Then you left his room and went to the garage to get a sheet of plywood, an electric screw driver and some nails.  You weren’t exactly handy with construction material, certainly not like your husband.  But your skill set wasn’t particularly needed to cover John’s bedroom door with the plywood.

When you were revving in the final nail, John opened his bedroom door and marveled at being confronted with a wood panel.  “What’s this?” he wondered, perhaps now too alert to slur his words.

“I’m carrying out an experiment,” you replied.  There was plenty of room for John to hear you because the plywood left a gap both at the top of the door and the bottom.  “I got it from my readings.  Do you remember the story of Livilla?”

“Who?”

“Livilla.  She so disgusted her mother that her mother locked her in her room and let her starve to death.”

“But—but—what does that have to do with me?” John wondered, sounding a bit worried.

“Just stay put, dear. I have to find another sheet of plywood for your window.”

“Mom?”

“Be back in a second.”

“But, Mom?”  You made no answer. “Where’s this coming from?” you heard him call, as you left the house for the garage again.

He was at the bedroom window when you returned with the second sheet of plywood.  “What are you doing?” he panicked.

“Darling, you’re our responsibility.  I don’t want you to be a burden on society, so I’m doing what should have been done ages ago.  I think there are still Tic Tacs in the top drawer of your dresser, where I put your clean underwear this morning.  They should keep you going for a while.”

“You’re—you’re insane!”

You found it hard to balance the plywood against the window, but you figured once you got one nail in the rest would be easy.

“You can’t do this!”

“My house/my rules.”

“If you think I’m going to stand for this.”

“You can lay down for all I care.  As that’s how I found you less than an hour ago.”

“I can break down this plywood any time I want,” he countered.

‘I know.  But when your father comes home, I’m sure he’ll have a more permanent solution.  After all, there’s always brick and mortar.”

“You’re truly truly nuts!”  He waited for your reply. You gave none.  I”m not staying any longer in this house if this is the way I’m going to be treated.  I thought I was your favorite.”

Just as you suspected, the second nail was easier to get in.

Then you heard a loud crash coming from inside the house.

Knowing your son so well, you took the precaution of hiding your purse and your car keys. So there he was, out the door of your house, running down the street as if the Furies were after him.  And you thought to yourself, there’s nothing like a classical education.

Of course, your husband wasn’t pleased with the damage you had done to the house, but he brightened when you said John had run off, hopefully for good.

John never did return to your house, ever.  And sometimes that hurt.  But for the most part you breathed a sigh of relief.  Besides, he had a new family now, working as a Manny for two adorable children, and you refused to believe he was the cause of the impending divorce due to adultery.