“How’s Nick?” I asked Deb on the phone yesterday.
“Still down for the count,” she answered. “He hasn’t come out of the front bedroom in three days.” Deb’s son, Nick had the flu and Christmas plans were in flux because of it. She had invited us to their house on Christmas Day for Rob’s famous Ziti and the yearly rousing game of Catch Phrase.
“Yikes, poor guy. And the whole family has been crowded into the house with him, so you’re going to have to cancel your Christmas Day gathering? We’re really going to miss Rob’s Ziti.”
“We decided he’d make his Ziti on New Year’s day instead, so you guys come over then.”
“We can’t miss Ziti. But listen to what’s happening with my Christmas this year. Omar has to work on Christmas Eve.”
“That’s good,” Deb chirped.
“No, it’s not. That’s when we usually open our presents from one another. But he told the restaurant he’d work Christmas Eve so he could have New Year’s Eve off to party with his friends.”
“Well, good for him. He’s an adult now. He gets to make his own decisions.”
“Yeah, I guess… But he might not want to spend the night on Christmas Eve after he gets off work.”
“So…?”
“So… what about Santa Claus?” I yelled.
“What about him?” she asked, laughing.
“Well, Santa comes on Christmas morning. Chloe always spends the night and she and Omar sleep together and then in the morning, they come down to see what Santa left them.”
“Oh, my god, he’s almost twenty-two years old.”
“So what? Stop laughing! Doesn’t Santa come see your kids?” I know her kids are thirty, twenty-six and twenty-one years old, but my Grandmom got me presents from Santa until I was forty.
“No,” she scoffed.
“Well, I’m trying to let Omar make his own decisions, but I’m afraid he won’t want to come over and spend the night after work. I don’t want to force him. So I told Nick to make him.”
“You’re not going to make him, but you’re making Nick make him.”
“Yes. Obviously.”
Everyone knows I’ve been yearning for an empty nest. Everyone knows I’ve been trying for months to shove Omar out of this nest. Everyone knows how excited I am about the prospect of Omar finding an apartment and moving out, starting his life, getting out from under Mom and Dad’s thumbs. So when Omar’s friend, Zion’s mom called before Thanksgiving and told me that Zion needed to leave the nest too, we went into high gear together, a full-on attack. Paula and I made a strategic plan consisting of me setting up appointments through Apartments.com and her driving the boys around North Hollywood looking for signs for an affordable two-bedroom apartment. Omar and Zion could not have been more disinterested in the whole process, but Paula and I dragged them every step of the way going, “What do you think about this one?”
“I don’t know, Paula,” I texted her after a couple of days. “These two might not look like the world’s greatest tenants.”
“You’re right. You and I will have to be the honey trap (i.e. responsible moms),” she answered.
“For sure. Wear your best Producer costume when we look at apartments. I could wear suburban housewife Athleisure.”
“Yes, you wear Lulu Lemon.”
Our plan worked and we found a sunny and spacious two-bedroom, two-bath apartment only about twelve blocks from our house. Paula and I did our song and dance routine for the serious, no-nonsense landlady and she seemed to buy it.
Both sets of parents co-signed on the lease and I began packing Omar’s stuff.
“Why are you so excited Mom?” Omar asked the day we learned our applications were approved. “You just want me out.”
“It’s true, I do want you out. But I’m also excited for you and Zion. You guys are going to have a blast. You can have friends over and hang out, you won’t have to follow Mom’s rules…”
“I’m going to sleep until 2:00 every day.”
“You can. And no one will make you get up. See? It will be great.”
The week leading up to move-out day was not so great. Omar was grouchy, uncooperative, and downright rude. When I asked him to come over for family dinner the night before he moved, he said, “Why would I want to be home?” It didn’t occur to me then that he was most likely just nervous about the prospect of moving out. I know him. He hates the unknown.
Nick was inconsolable the whole week, bursting into tears unexpectedly. One night he was so upset he couldn’t find anything to watch on Netflix, so he decided to watch Toy Story 4. “Are you crying?” I asked him when I came through the living room. “What are you crying about?”
He pointed to the screen. Woodie was leaving his boy. “Omar’s toys.”
Why was it my job to convince everyone that Omar’s moving out was a positive step for all of us? Why was Omar so mad? And why was Nick so resistant?
“I’m just sad,” said Nick. “I’m going to miss him.”
“He’s twelve blocks up the street!” I said. “And I bet you anything he’ll be more cheerful when we see him. We’ll see him when he wants to see us. I know I’ll have a better relationship with him. I don’t have to put up with his bad attitude every time I speak to him.”
After helping him move his bed, side table, television, bedding and clothes over to his apartment, buying him toilet paper and solo cups and paper towels and Clorox Clean-up and picture hangers, I called him. “Omar, you know what? You’re in charge of your own life now. You’re working and paying your own rent, and you’re no longer obligated to follow my rules or treat me in a certain way. I would really like to have a friendly and peaceful relationship with you so I’m going to just back off and let you be. If you need help, you know you can call. And I’m going wait for an invitation before coming over to your apartment, okay?”
“Okay…” he said. He didn’t believe me.
That night, I woke in a cold sweat. That Clorox Clean-Up. Didn’t he have Formica countertops in his apartment? Could that Clorox Clean-Up stain those counters? He’d be responsible for the damage. I pictured all the t-shirts he’d stained while trying to clean his tennis shoes with Clorox in the kitchen sink at home.
Omar and his friend, Brett planned to mount the television in his bedroom. Brett claimed that he knew how to do it and had the tools to make it happen. Were they allowed to do that? What if they tore up the walls? I realized I had not even read the lease agreement. What did it say?
And I had planned on taking Omar to the grocery to stock up on food, but Zion’s dad hadn’t brought the refrigerator over yet. What was Omar going to eat? Did he even know how to use an oven? What if he forgot to turn it off? Last time he tried to cook frozen fried rice in the microwave, it came out hard and smoking.
The next night, I woke from a terrible nightmare. Omar had adopted two cats. I was in his apartment and was looking for the litter box in his bathroom. Scattered on the floor were baking dishes, like brownie pans, full of t-shirts and socks, soaked in cat pee. “Omar!” I yelled to him. “Where is your litter box?”
He poked his head around the corner and said, “Oh, I left it at my friend’s house.”
He didn’t know how to turn on the heat. He didn’t know how to work the blinds. He didn’t know how to open his mailbox. He didn’t know how to turn on the dishwasher. He didn’t know how to sweep. He couldn’t figure out tandem parking and he’d be stuck in the parking garage and late for work. Was he even going to shower at all any more? He had a gas fireplace in his living room. That could be deadly.
I did not expect this. It wasn’t like me to think like this. I’m not a worrier! I usually leave that job to Nick. He inherited his mom’s worry genes. I’m more like my mom, who assumes if she hasn’t heard from me, everything is okay. Why was I having such a hard time letting go? My brain couldn’t stop mothering Omar. For twenty years, my brain has been on high alert, flashing non-stop warnings: Where’s Omar? What’s Omar doing? What does Omar need? Protect Omar. Teach Omar. Nurture Omar. Help Omar. Love Omar. Warn Omar. I guess only a part of me was yearning for an empty nest. Or maybe it will just take some time to develop new neural pathways in my mommy brain, messages that flash: Omar is ready. Omar is okay. Omar is an adult.
I guess I’m not going to make Nick make him come over and spend the night after work on Christmas Eve. I guess he’s old enough to decide whether he wants Santa Claus to come on Christmas morning. And I’m emotionally healthy enough to accept the changes, even at Christmas time. Omar has always been my teacher and this year he is teaching me to trust in my parenting, to trust in his abilities and to let him go.
But I really would feel better if I could get my hands on that Clorox Clean-up.
