I Always Wanted A Personal Chef...

I shared a variety of small bedrooms all four years of college, a situation that today seems just shy of inhumane. I had three housemates the first year after college and then shared a three-bedroom apartment with two friends the two years after that. But ever since I went to business school in 2006, I have lived alone. One gets used to living alone rather quickly, at least I did. Four years of living by myself got me pretty used to having my own space and keeping my own schedule. So the fact that my mom just moved into my small two-bedroom apartment is a recipe for some interesting blog posts, whether rooted in frustration or humor – or likely both.

But while I grow accustomed to my new living situation, I will try to remember that my mom has a far more substantial change to contend with. While I adapt to slightly less space and compromised independence, I am still in my home, surrounded by my things, pursuing my career, etc. My mom’s life has received a much more significant shock. My cramped apartment offers about a tenth of the space of my parents’ Atlanta home, my mom now awakens in New Jersey every morning (a real shock for anyone coming from south of the Mason-Dixon line), she has to look at a map every time she wants to go somewhere (assuming she wants to come back), and she has taken a leave of absence from her job. Not to mention the husband she married about a hundred years ago (okay, more like forty) is hundreds of miles away. And yet, she hasn’t complained once.

Instead, she continues to come up with ways to make my life easier. It has been less than a week since she moved in, and already she has washed and folded my laundry, run some errands, served as a personal shopper and cooked several gourmet (very low sodium) meals. I should note that I may have threatened her with the power of public scrutiny (um, hello – my blog has 47 followers), so she may be working for brownie points here, but so far this is working out just fine. Just fine indeed, as the smell of tonight’s dinner drifts my way… So on the eve of Mother’s Day weekend, I salute my mother. I say thank you for moving to the Dirty Jerz for some indeterminate amount of time to once again baby your youngest child, who is not always perfectly gracious but always intends to be.

As long as she exercises the restraint necessary to keep from rearranging all of my stuff and continues to keep herself from rubbing her bare feet together in that way that drives me completely insane, I’m not sure I’ll ever let her move out. She’s a pretty darn good roommate, and I always wanted a personal chef.