By Connie Jones

We should be used to it by now, heaven knows. His sister first, now David. Come home for Thanksgiving or the long vacations from college. Stay out until all hours, get in late, and then watch movies, make yourself some scrambled eggs and toast, and fall asleep on the sofa in the den sometime before dawn. Sleep till early afternoon, and ask for pancakes at 3 p.m., if there is a parent not at work you can ask pancakes from.

If we wanted to see David, talk with him, we'd have to make a date. An early dinner at a restaurant works best, because there's time for friends afterwards.

But it's summer now. Surely we will see more of him, get reacquainted with this new, more worldly David. Perhaps he'll get a job, I think, one that will bring him home hungry for dinner every night and we'll eat together.

"I want to stay in Richmond this summer. I love this place. I've found a job."

This isn't the first time David has told us rather than asked us. I've worried all along that as a mother I haven't been in control, but it's hard to argue with some of his pronouncements. "I'm taking calculus even though it's hard and I might not get a good grade." "I've broken up with Whitney because I realized I treated her well and she treated me like dirt." 

He snuck some other pronouncements by us. "You should buy me a tux because it's too expensive for you to keep renting them for me." Wait a second!

But here it is now, what I dreaded. The child who was of this house and whose presence filled every corner of it with his music and his sports equipment and his dirty dishes, has become only a guest passing through.

We booked him for a restaurant dinner during the week he was here. After we had eaten, I thought, he would go out with friends. I had an art project whose deadline was drawing near and I headed for my work table. Bill had papers to grade and I could see him looking for a quiet place the way the cat cruises the house in search of a nap site.

"This family needs to watch a movie together," David announced, and herded us into the den. "'A League of Their Own' is what we need," he said, shoving the videotape into the VCR. He set up my drafting table for me, sat us down, offered us Cokes, and played host to our evening. 
These kids have one foot out the door, and they want to ignore home when they please on this journey to adulthood. I'm convinced it's our job to make that stepping out the door possible. But there are times when they want to make sure that home base is solid and predictable, and that they have some control over it. That Christmas tree must be up on time and trimmed just so. Their room must be waiting for them, even if they plan to sleep on the sofa. And for an 18-year-old who's left home to succeed in getting Mom and Dad down to watching a movie may be as important as commanding a 2 a.m. feeding when you're 18 weeks.
We had a wonderful time with the baseball movie. When it was over, David went out with his friends.