Life with Son 1

It's been three months, more or less, since Son 1 moved into my apartment — not that he's tied here (he visits Wife from time to time, especially when I travel) but this is his default residence as he looks for work. And it's been long enough I can notice some patterns.

The most obvious one is that he has completely taken over making dinner; this also means that, with only rare exceptions, he has taken over doing the dishes. I know that Wife puts the boys to doing all her housework when they stay there; so at first I resisted this change (to be unlike her), and argued that I was treating the boys like guests by doing things for them. But Son 1 has argued that it only makes sense for him to cook since he has his day free while I'm at work; also, he adds, I pay for all the groceries so it's kind of fair to ask him to do something. A third factor, less often discussed, is that his tastes are more restricted than mine. I'm usually fine with anything he makes, but the reverse is not reliably true. So I figure it's better to let him cook for that reason too. 

Naturally I pay more in groceries for two than for one, not only for simple arithmetical reasons but because we are more likely to have regular meals (at least for dinner) when it is the two of us together. And I buy a lot more beer than I used to, although perhaps a little less in the way of spirits. (And less variety ... but Son 1 likes scotch, so I usually get that.) 

But what I find most striking is the level of conversation. In the past, when he visited only for holidays, we talked endlessly about school, about politics, about funny stories. But now ... it's a little bit like it used to be with my dad, only without the sense of prurient menace that I always felt underlying those conversations. What I mean is that Son 1 is always ready to talk, and I'm not. Of course he spends his day alone, and that starves him of company. (That's why he visits Wife if I'm gone for a week.) So when I get home he is ready to interact, even as I am often looking for refuge from the day. 

Or when I come home from a trip, he asks right away "How was your trip? Did work go well? Any funny stories?" Meanwhile I am going through a very precise and unchanging regimen of unpacking my suitcase and my backpack, putting everything away, emptying my pockets, and then lying down to rest. I'm always having to tell him, "I'll catch up with you in a couple of minutes." 

This morning I mentioned a concert this afternoon that I might like to go to. Well I had to do my laundry first, and I spent way too much time on my phone checking Twitter. By the time mid-afternoon came around I got my hat and got ready to leave — Son 1 asked, "Are you going to the concert now?" — and I just stood there for a minute or two. Finally I decided No. I went back into my room without saying anything, and took a nap instead. Yes, I enjoyed the nap. I probably needed it more than I needed the concert. But what struck me was how hard it was for me to say anything about what I was doing. 

The one time that's really not true is when I've been drinking. I'm much more sociable then, or I think I am. This doesn't necessarily mean that I drink more than when I live alone — you know I drink enough then, too — but I'm aware of the dynamic. 

Time for bed.

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