Moving on - please don't leave

So, my son informed me he’s moving out of the house when he’s 18.

He’s six, so at least I get to enjoy his company for a while yet.

But was it something I said? Something I did? I know I’m not the world’s best cook, but surely I’m not the worst.

No, he’s moving out because his brother told him that’s what you do when you’re 18 since you’re not a kid anymore. You’re a man.

I thought he was joking about leaving the homestead until I came home one day and my babysitter, a.k.a. my cousin, told me he told her he was moving out.

Again, just because.

Have you thought this through, I asked him? Apparently he had since he figured he was going to build a house instead of buying one.

“Buying one costs too much money,” he said. “I’m just going to buy a lot of wood.”

I have to admit, I’m a little envious of his plans. My one biggest regret in life is that I never lived on my own, in my own place. I lived at home with my parents, then in university residence and back home for summers. I lived in an apartment with a friend during my last year of college, then back home for a few years after I started working at this newspaper and then into the house I live in now. I made that last move on my wedding night.

Somewhere along the way it would have been kind of neat to have had my own apartment before I got married. Sure, the commute to work would have been inconvenient – for my mother that is. She would have had to swing by to pick me up each morning so I could have used her car for the day since I didn’t have one of my own yet, but she would have gotten used to it.

And of course I would have still relied on Chez Comeau for take-out meals.

But just think of all that independence.

Maybe that’s why my youngest wants out. But I have to say, I’m far from ready to ever think about him leaving, even if it is in the year 2020.

Which is why I’ve told him there is no written rule that says when you turn 18, enjoy your birthday cake on the way out the door.

I’m happy to report he’s since changed his mind. I found this out when I asked him the other day (not to be confused with the other ‘other day’) if he still planned on moving out when he’s 18.

“Naahhh, I changed my mind,” he said. “I’m going to stay here until I’m 64.”

I’ll be 97.

I think I’ll turn his room into a den.