Back-to-school time can’t arrive soon enough

But I give the kids a break. They will be be on their way before we know it

One evening last week, I noticed my neighbour Dave standing in front of his house staring blankly up into a tree.

This is not totally unusual behaviour (well, at least not for Dave). He may have been contemplating how many maple keys would soon drop in his driveway or estimating the barometric pressure in preparation for his drive up north the next day.

I wandered down and asked him what he was doing.

“I’m checking this here,” he said, pointing to a gnarly tree at the side of his driveway.

“It’s got a big crack in it. I think it may be done. It only looks good for about 15 minutes every year,” he said.

“Careful with that,” I said. “You could say the same thing about us.”

We sat down on the front stoop and Dave said, “My house is in chaos,” shaking his head.

For a minute, I thought the worst. “What’s wrong? Are you out of gin? I can get some from my house,” I said, knowing we keep a bottle in the first aid kit for emergencies.

“No, my daughter’s home from university.”

Ah, yes, that, I thought. Even gin wouldn’t fix that.

I should know. Both of us have our last kid — daughters — in university and now home for the summer.

When they arrive back from a long school year away, it’s all wonderful and happy. And then there’s day two.

The first thing I noticed was the trail of stuff everywhere. Knapsack left strategically at the bottom of the stairs maximizing the possibility of killing dad in a tragic fall. Multiple pairs of shoes in the front hallway, not lined up against the wall, oh no, the shoes are strewn all over the place, like little parent landmines to trip over. And then there’s the clothes. I love my daughter, but to say she’s messy is like saying Anthony “The Mooch” Scaramucci has a bit of a potty mouth.

She leaves a trail of clothes everywhere she goes: jacket on the dining room table, running shoes in the kitchen, gym socks in the couch cushions, and the upstairs hall is littered with unmentionables that shall remain, well, unmentionable. (I think some of them are underwear, but they could be just stray pieces of coloured ribbon.)

And then there’s the bathroom. Going in there after Ella’s had a shower is like trekking into a Cambodian jungle after a hurricane — only more messy. Once the steam clears — she only runs the hot water for an hour or so — it’s hard to find the counter because it’s covered with wet towels, hair bands, makeup bottles and jars, and the one I love the best, her hair straightener still plugged in and glowing at around 1,000 degrees centigrade. I’ve learned my lesson. Now I go in wearing oven mitts and a football helmet. It’s safer that way.

Then there’s the towels. After Ella was home for about a week, I couldn’t help but notice that our previously white towels were now streaked with what appeared to be either engine grease or tar. Since I had given up making asphalt as a hobby years ago and my wife had not signed up for Car Repair for Beginners, my suspicions turned to my darling daughter.

“What are these marks?” I asked my wife, holding up a towel that looked like the start of a Jackson Pollock painting.

“Oh, that’s Ella. It’s her mascara. I bought wipes for her, but I guess she forgot to use them.”

Apparently, she forgot about 47 times, because every towel in the house looks like it was used to clean hub caps, a delightful touch that I’m sure future guests will appreciate. “Does it wash out?” I asked, naively. “Are you kidding?” said my wife. “You couldn’t get that off with a flame-thrower.”

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I recounted all of this to Dave, who just sat there shaking his head. “I look forward to getting my house back,” he sighed.

Me too, but in the end, we agreed we should maybe give the kids — and the tree — a break.

They’d both be on their way before we knew it.

Paul Benedetti is the author of You Can Have A Dog When I’m Dead. Reach him at pbenedetti16@gmail.com

When they arrive back from a long school year away, it’s all wonderful and happy. And then there’s day two.