The Princess and I have a little thing we do—we talk about when we’ll live together, just the two of us. She hasn’t yet had a place of her own, being a college student, and so far, she’s come home each summer. But the time is not that far away from when she’ll be a real adult. Someday, I hope, she’ll be married and have children of her own. But before that happens, we share a little dream.
Because we share our home with gross boys—Dearest Son and McIrish, that is—we like to talk about how neat and clean “our” place will be. How there will be no clods of dirt on the floor from work boots, or strange smells wafting across the upstairs thanks to a once-wet towel that has now hardened into a concrete mass on the floor of a certain teenage boy’s closet. We talk about the delicate wine glasses we’ll have (McIrish breaks things a lot, so we currently buy sturdy stuff).
But Princess and I will have adorable hedgehog-shaped creamers and retro flowery aprons. Our place will be a townhouse, perhaps, with a tiny, adorable garden. We’ll have pretty, pastel couches where we can read, complete with fluffy decorative pillows. We’ll have a lot of cats, and they’ll all have wonderful names like Kifli and Uncle Rico.
Our little nest will have plants, too—succulents and potted herbs, roses and hydrangea and lilac trees. Wind chimes will hang in the garden. I will make lavender martinis, and Princess will have a collection of teapots. No one will snore or forget to flush. We’ll make French toast every Sunday.
It has occurred to me that the odds of me living with my adult daughter, just us two, are perhaps small. It may have occurred to her as well. But we both love to think about this happy, girly, tea-filled time, when we can be together every day.