I've written about my variety of roles since my girls moved out, leaving me in an house of men. From fraternity house mom to Burning Mom, I've now been dubbed the Trailer Park Mom. I try not to let it get to me as there is a natural end date to this predicament and I'm sure the neighbours have not called bylaws with complaints because they, too, are aware of our moving date.
It gets worse, as C, in his paradoxical energies of frustration with packing and wanting to support his son's creative endeavours, pulled out B's effects from the shed and laid them across that part of our yard, a carpet of junk.
As of this evening the art car is gone and the RV leaves shortly, destination Merritt's Bass Coast festival.
They did do a good job pulling the RV's interior together:
I don't like living in this mass disorganization coupled with the fear that they don't have a clue what they are doing, somewhat balance by a sense that the end in in sight. A vicous cycle of terror vs relief, but isn't that what being the mom of a creative type boy is all about?