When I dropped out of college at 19, I came home to my parents' house. My parents had moved since I had left home. There was no room for me in the new house. I was not there to claim one when they moved in. My Dad and I put up a wall with paneling on it to enclose part of the garage. We cut a hole in the air duct that was in that space. Tada! That was now my bedroom. My room consisted of a concrete floor, three walls with paneling, one concrete block wall, a twin bed (I had a king size when I left 15 months before), and maybe a table. I was not happy. But, that is what was offered to me. I kind of held a grudge about that for a while.

As of right now, my oldest son is 18 years old. He starts college in the fall. I am so very proud of him. He was accepted to an honors program. His grades and testing earned him scholarships. His future is very bright. For this summer, though, he is still home. He has no job. Our attempts to get him to get one have fallen short. He is not motivated to do so. I refuse to go find him one. So, I am giving him one. In exchange for room and board, gas for his car, his car, his car insurance and whatever money is left after those expenses are paid going into his pocket, he will be my assistant. He will fetch his siblings from various places, run errands for me, do extra chores around the house, and anything else I need. To earn his car, he has been doing the "personal driver" service for a while for me. I am expecting more of him this summer though. This arrangement has its good days and bad days.

Today, I suddenly realized why my parents put me in that basement. The bad news for my son is that our basement is darker, dirtier, hotter and a lot less comfortable than the one I lived in at 19 years old. Let's hope I don't get to the point where I want to put him down there.