This is when you know you should develop more bad habits…

We were sitting around the dinner table the other night, eating supper (which J cooked, of course). Suppers have been good lately—they always get better in the fall—since we’ve decided that it’s no longer too hot to turn on the freaking oven. This week we’ve had roasted chicken and homemade garlicky cheese potatoes and a wonderful white sauce lasagna.

But I digress.

We were sitting around the table, and somehow we got into a discussion of where we wanted to live when we grow up. Actually, when I say we, I really mean the boys. K has grand ideas—Seattle, Los Angeles, New York. He shared the reasoning behind them; J and I looked at one another excitedly. It will be nice to go and visit our adult son in any of these locales.

Ant-- who is, after all, a devout homebody— plans to stay closer to home. Maybe Kansas City, says Ant. Or he will stay in Columbia, which he likes well.

There’s just one problem.

He plans to stay in our house. Let me explain. He doesn’t plan to live in the basement when he’s thirty. He plans to “take over the house”.

Ant: And when I’m an adult, I can live here in the house, and when I have kids, they can watch TV in the bonus room, and I can watch TV in the living room, and my kids can do their homework at the desk.
Me: Well, it sounds like you have it all planned out, but there’s one problem. Where will your Dad and I be? Won’t we still be living in our house?
Ant: Oh, no. No, you won’t be living here. When I become an adult, I am going to move you to the retirement village. That’s what happens, you know. When you become an adult, you move your parents to the retirement village, and then you have your own kids.

Never mind that we will only be in our 40s.

Me: But, Ant, we didn’t do that with your Nana and Grandpa, did we? Or Grandpa and Grandma! They all still live in their own houses!
Ant: Well, Mom, you are just running behind.

J and I looked at one another, across the table. Ant went along, eating his dinner, with all the certainty and conviction that a seven year can possess.

K, who had been clearing his plate and washing his hands during most of this exchange, now took the opportunity to express his disgust. At first, I was so excited—I thought my older child might come to our aid. That was not the case, however.

K: Ant, that’s not fair. You don’t get to move Mom and Dad to the retirement village when you grow up. I am the oldest; I get to make the decisions! I will move them to the retirement village.

Under his breath, J muttered to me, “Better get some more bad habits now, Sarah. I don’t want to be alive when they DO have to start making decisions for us.”