Consider this: it’s move-in weekend at the zoo…or sorority house…same thing. In a turn of events that I refuse to believe is coincidental, there is also an earthquake…followed by a hurricane. In my bed, planning for the next day, I think to myself: huh, maybe move-in will be delayed a couple of days till it all passes. No. Such. Luck.
In the land of parents who are obviously traumatized by their own children, I have 60 plus demands (using that word on purpose, because there is no asking) to move in early so the parents can get home—without their children—before the impending natural disaster. Some of you in blog land may say to yourself that, obviously, the sorority house is out of the way of the hurricane and earthquake zone. Obviously, Mother Dearest is trying to drop her crotch fruit off at the safest place she knows, risking her own life to do so before the danger comes. Nope. We’re right in the path of both disasters. Right. Smack. In. The. Middle. I’m standing outside my bedroom window on Saturday morning of move-in morning, letting the dogs go potty in the backyard—no bra, no shoes, no glasses, and pre-teeth brushing. I am ambushed from the side by a mom who says, “We NEED to get in the house. We NEED to drop her off so we can get back to Philadelphia.” Um, ok. Just let me put on a bra and I’ll be right over to help your dearest move her assortment of “things that are supposed to pass for clothes but don’t” into the house. As I turn around, I think to myself: if you’re so scared of this storm, why are you dropping your child off in the storm’s dangerous path and fleeing yourself? Ohhhh, now I get it! You’ve raised a monster! May through mid-August is all you can take. So you drop her off with me, risking the likelihood of no food, water, and electricity for days. Yeah, this is gonna be a super fun year.
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