house rules

“I really like it here,” my son’s friend said as they played a game of chess on the floor. “I would love to live here.” He was looking for a new place to live. I overheard his comment from the corner where I sat working at the computer.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s what his roommate said when he was here this spring. He wanted to come and stay for the summer – until he found out what the house rules were.”
Friend looked at son, “Really?”
Son nodded, “Yep.”
He never asked what the house rules were, nor did he say anything about moving in with us.
Guess in our home are treated differently than permanent residents. Especially those in that between stage of life: The high school graduate who is not married.
By that time, I figure they are old enough to handle a job, wash clothes, make meals and pay their way.
The firs time we had an in-betweener was the summer my stepson moved in. He declared, “I’m 20 going on 16.”
I declared, “You either enroll in summer school or find a job.”
He found a job and signed up for summer school.
The rule hit my oldest full force a couple of weeks after he graduated. He thought he would sleep all day and sit up all night in front of the computer calling bulletin board systems across the country. We got our phone bill before the younger ones finished school that year. I yanked him out of bed that morning and sent him to find a job so fast he made sure he was in school or working every summer afterward.
We all made an exception to the rule the summer our now college sophomore was sick in bed. As soon as he was capable of helping a little around the house, though I handed him a broom.
Until this summer, that was the only exception to the rule when both college sons had summer jobs lined up. Then the oldest was offered and eagerly received a fellowship for summer session at Notre Dame. The youngest simply wanted to experience life somewhere else. He went to New Orleans and spent days filling out applications before he found a job driving an ice cream truck 12 hours a day, earning below minimum wages. He traded that job for sitting weekends with a terminally ill patient. During the week, he packed a duffel bag and headed to church camp.
The patient’s need for him, summer school at Notre Dame and camp all ended the same weekend. With eight weeks of summer left, we had two unemployed lunks hogging the couch and lounge chair – temporarily. They were waiting to go to Rochester, .Y. My father needed companions and help getting around the city – after an encounter with the medical world.
By the time they returned college was a couple weeks away. No more short-term jobs or summer school: They slept, read, watched videos, visited family and friends, worked around the house and teased me. Last week, they finally left for college, saying that next summer will be different.
I sincerely hope so.