On May 20, 2026, our lives changed forever. That is when our sort of grown, 19-year-old son returned home from his freshman year of college.
As a parent, we often hear about the terrible twos, when your toddler is exploring and showing his first signs of independence by, you know, walking and talking. What all those so-called parent pundits—the authors, bloggers, podcasters and even my Super Mom besties—failed to warn us about is that first year after your teen comes home from college. You’re not really parenting anymore. You’re just … aware of his existence. Our teen-free house had suddenly become teen-focused again. Or so we thought.
We hear the gaming—and the yelling that comes with it. We notice the refrigerator emptying no matter how much we fill it. I am stirring my morning coffee with a rubber spatula because the bulk of our dishes have seemingly disappeared into the man cave/crash pad/teen lounge, a space two floors away that our son has been taken over, without discussion or permission, since he is never ever sleeping in his childhood bedroom again because it’s (gasp!) on the same floor as Mom and Dad’s.
The floor of the man cave/crash pad/teen lounge used to have nice hard wood flooring and area rugs, but now it’s wall-to-wall statement T-shirts, hoodies, Crocs, baggy jeans and pajama bottoms that have seen more wear outside the house then inside.
The car’s gas tank never crosses the quarter-tank mark. A car comes and goes and our son disappears, sometimes without saying a word. Presumably these are friends, but one never knows because these people never darken the doorway, just the driveway A curfew may or may not be adhered to (even the talk of a curfew is a dicey conversation).
Prior to May 20, I am absolutely sure our linen closet had more than two towels. Now, they are part of the tapestry that makes up the floor of the man cave/crash pad/teen space. I just pray that they were dry before they were cast aside. It’s really difficult to rehab a towel with mildew.
We can count the number of meals we shared at the dinner table this summer on two-thirds of a hand. Meanwhile, at 2 a.m., our son becomes Chef Ramsey, banging pots and pans while cooking full on meals, all while Face Timing his gaming crew—loudly—because he can’t pause the game. We occasionally received proof-of-life notifications and those usually come in the form a text from inside the house asking us to Zelle him some money or to order DoorDash.
By mid-summer, this was our son’s contribution to our household:
2
Number of family activities he attended. In dealing with this age group, other parents suggested we just keep asking and trying to include him in outings. Well, we did and he kept declining.
Family hikes. Nah, I’m good.
Family gatherings. Nah, I’m good.
Meals out. Nah, I’m good, but bring me something.
Most of these requests were made while standing at the foot of his bed and talking to a 6-foot-tall lump hidden under a comforter and pillows. It might have been him or a pile of clothes, we’ll never really know.
To be fair, our schedules didn’t exactly match up with his. Our son worked part-time some evenings (very part-time, DoorDashing when he felt like it), stayed up to 3 or 4 in the morning playing video games or hanging out and then slept to 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Meanwhile, my husband and I woke up at 6 a.m. to go to work. My husband left the house for work while I worked from home. It was kind of hard for us to catch up during the few waking hours that overlapped.
3
The number of full-on, adult conversations. Conversations with any substance were rare, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Our son avoided these like the plague because talking about college, his finances, scholarships, getting a job, getting a life were all too much for him to handle.
So, what was his big, lofty summer plan? Well, I once overhead him telling his friends that he had planned to spend this summer laying in the fields near our home, staring up at the stars, just relaxing, like we live in Dawson’s Creek or something. Bahaha!
4,378
The number of whining/complaining/gripes of “we’re so extra” every time we asked him to do the tiniest task like take out the trash, gas up the car or clean his man cave/crash pad/teen lounge.
Asking him to cook dinner for all of us, not just microwaving something really quickly between games for just himself was apparently a personal affront. And that fact that we wanted it done once or twice a week at, say, 7 p.m.—not 2 a.m.—made us the absolute worst humans ever.
Coincidentally, I would often wake up at around 2 a.m. for a snack or a drink and he and I would briefly catch up while standing in the kitchen. He, pausing his FaceTime just long enough to ask me about my day, me, trying to stay off camera looking like a zombie in front of his friends.
Thankfully, I learned I was not alone in this transition. About a month after he returned home, I met with several friends who were facing the same challenges, pulling out their hair, trying to parent the un-parentable.
This was normal, they said.
They know everything and nothing at the same time.
They say they’re grown, but they still want you to pay their cell phone bill.
They don’t want a curfew, but they want to use your car to stay out all night.
They work part-time jobs, but they would rather spend your money.
So now, our son is back at school for his sophomore year. Unlike the Freshman Drop, where we were sad—devastated, even—to see him go, this year, we were so excited for him to return to college that we dropped him off early and paid extra to do it. Money. Well. Spent.
Now, my husband, my dog and I can get back to our regularly scheduled lives. And the man cave/crash pad/teen lounge has been restored to just one space: our family room.
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