Reflections in the Carpool

Summer is supposed to be relaxing, but maybe that’s just a euphemism for “boring.”  That’s what I tell myself anyway. 

The kids go to various day camps  -- drama (Cilla),  music (Betsey), baseball (Josh), soccer and computer, (everyone) and In May we start shopping for the different camping gear.  (They send us lists.)

This year, Betsey wanted to go to overnight horseback riding camp.  I thought it would be a good idea, since there would be two weeks when we only had two kids to arrange carpools for.  But I felt funny.

Nikki said I was turning into one of those mothers who don’t want their kids to be independent. 

“Well, it’s just that she’s going away to camp now for two weeks and one day she’ll be going away to college for four years and then she’ll have her own apartment and maybe get a job somewhere else so she won’t even be home for vacations.”

“Maybe she’ll go to graduate school.”  Karen tried to be helpful.  “That’s at least two more years and maybe she’ll get a Ph.D.  And maybe she’ll get a degree in English or archeology or something like that and she’ll have to live at home.  At least between digs.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.  I must have looked upset, because Karen added, “But she’ll be able to write and then she’ll get something if she publishes.”

“Or she could write a novel that would make a lot of money.”

I don’t know which was worse, having an unemployed or underemployed daughter around the house or having her off someplace across the country.

“And Josh will go to college and Cilla will go to college and then they’ll get jobs miles away and then they’ll get married and Ed and I will be old.”

“You’ll never get old, Charlie.”

But I had started Karen off,  “I just know the boys will marry some awful girls who will call me ‘Mother” until they have kids and then they will not only refer to me as ‘Grandma’ or ‘Mom Mom’ or whatever they pick, but will call me that even when they’re talking to me and the kids aren’t around.”

“You should get to pick.  Don’t take any guff.”

“One thing, when the boys get engaged, I’m going to tell those girls to call me ‘Karen.’  I still don’t know what to call Tom’s mother.  So I don’t call her anything,”

“Helmut is going to want the grandchildren to call us ‘Oma’ and ‘Opa.’”

“That’s exotic.” I said.  “You can get them little dirndls and lederhosen.”

“You do realize, don’t you, that grandchildren will mean our children had sex?”

I had been trying not to.