Exceptional Young Men

I never thought my adult children would live with me for more than a few months, or perhaps a summer home between semesters. But right now, two live with me. All the time. Indefinitely.

Ethan, my musician son, has gone back to school after realizing he wanted to make consistent money, or needed a better job to earn money to go back to graduate school, and this included a better job. Devon has just graduated from college and is now looking for a job.

There are pros and cons to having them here. I get annoyed when I go to take a bath, and dirty towels have been haphazardly tossed on the floor and the tub is soap-scummy. I worry more about them than I do when they're not here. But in truth, I enjoy having them here. I like taking walks with them and tossing around ideas about religion and politics and relationships. I like asking them to cook dinner - and they do it. I like hugging them and talking in silly voices and sharing a thousand family jokes with them.

They're also helpful. They walk the dog and do the dishes. They fix the computer. They run to the store for mushrooms or milk.

They also help out with Mom. My octogenarian mother lives with me. Her health is slowly, miserably failing her. My calendar includes lots of doctor visits for her. Lots of procedures and lab tests. She is at that stage of life where one's social life becomes medical providers and hospital rooms.

Ethan and Devon are good to their grandmother. My sister recently told me they are "exceptional young men" because they don't complain about helping to take care of her. At first I agreed, secretly proud to have raised "exceptional young men."

The more I thought about it, I decided there's something wrong when it's exceptional to help someone without complaining. Shouldn't that be the norm?

Of course, it isn't. It's hard to be helpful and kind. It's hard to do it cheerfully and without at least a little resentment, even if it's hidden away where nobody sees.

If my sons are resentful, they hide it well. They have never complained when asked to take Grandma the doctor or push her wheelchair or tidy up her house. (And this includes the son, Bryce, who does not live with me.) Never. For this I am grateful. So maybe I won't complain so much about the towels littering the bathroom floor.