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Clayton Record
The boy was home for Christmas. Or, as he was quick to point out, he was in Oklahoma for Christmas. He considers Wyoming home and rightfully so, since he spent most of his growing up years there and in Montana.
This trip, though, he was on a mission. He took his truck and a small trailer back with him and allowed his mother to tag along to share the driving.
The week preceding his departure was a whirlwind. Not because it was Christmas week, but because he was packing. Raiding might be a better term. He does identify as a Viking, after all.
It began slowly, with him checking out closets and drawers in the house, looking for warm clothes he left behind when he flew to Cody in September. Or warm clothes he could abscond with and no one would miss. He also did a little shopping, since he has lost considerable weight without any home cooking. Shopping meant him choosing and mom paying, of course.
About the third day I noticed he was starting to make the Tim the Toolman Taylor noises as he looked in the pantry and cabinets. The boxes and totes appeared that afternoon and the raid was on in full.
By the fourth day he was loping from one end of the house to the other, slinging soap, shampoo, over the counter cures and medicines into his boxes, bags and totes at warp speed. Bedding, towels and kitchen linens disappeared as if they were sucked up by a vacuum. By this time, he was no longer Tim the Toolman, but more like one of the Bandarlog monkeys from the Jungle Books. Loud, fast, strong and frightening.
It was like Santa stuffing his pack, but instead of toys, it was household items. Pots, pans, hot mitts, crock pots, rice cookers, you name it, he grabbed it. I think Plan B is to hold a garage sale with my things to fund buying the things he needs that I didn’t have.
Books. Did I mention books? There were at least three boxes of books. For a young man who claimed to live simply, he sure had a lot of stuff.
Finally, after a kitchen table and my faux-leather easy chair disappeared, the trailer door was closed and the raid was over.
The whole adventure made me incredibly sad. Not because my goods and chattel were gone. Before, when the Boy left, I knew it was just an excursion and he would be back home again, under our roof where my baby should be.
This time was different. Our home is no longer his home. He might visit, but he won’t be back. We have succeeded as parents by putting ourselves out of business. I worked hard on it, spent some sleepless nights and early mornings praying, but we got it done in stellar fashion. We did a great job.
Why does that hurt so much?