They say you can never go home again, that after leaving the nest your parents will inevitably fill the void of your childhood room with foosball tables, gift wrapping supplies, or even a “guest room” that summons the creepy thought of their aging middle aged friends getting snuggly beneath your Star Wars sheets.
Given that I’m a child raised by television, I prepped myself for this – I had already witnessed several “Seinfeld” episodes where the Senior Costanzas turned George’s childhood space into an ill-fitting game room to house their new pool table. Parents taking up hobbies, parents trying to live out their gone and forgotten youth; parents finding other parents; that was the “norm” I inexplicably set for myself.
What I found when I returned to my Mom’s house to stay this summer was not predictable in any way that television has trained me for. I didn’t find a single illegitimate stepfather she had magically gained since my departure, nor a “recreation/guest room” in the space I had left untouched. Instead of any of these typical parent-with-adult-child symptoms, I discovered that my Mom had filled the void I left upon my departure with – yes – more cats.
I see through you, cat with an almost adorable mustache of fur. You're just a plaid shirt, a Budweiser and a trucker hat away from telling me I'll never make anything out of my life.
Somehow in the space between living with her as a child and returning as an adult with my tail between my legs (figuratively speaking) the Prescott family cats have taken on a more vengeful state.
Daily they glare at me from beyond my cereal bowl, contemplating how sweet the world was when they were the star of this particular sit com. Weekly they find some way to punish me for playing my rock music and sitting on “their” couch.
I just wish my Mom was a normal Mom.
I would happily trade the kitty piss in my black Keds for a shirtless guy named Jeff lounging on my couch and pretending to be a father figure in my life.
I would easily swap the hairball on my bed for my Mom even attempting to pull a Kris Kardashian and be a “super cool Mom” now that she has adult children and can return to the youthful version of herself she left in the ‘80s.
As a matter of fact, my Mother is taking a stab at this last one. Amping up her god-given “sassy broad” personality with an impossibly larger dose of sassiness; though all of this is arguably negated once she engages in full on conversations with her feline children. Which she does. And they glare at her back in silence. And she replies. It’s an eerie thing to encounter that silently encourages me to never be single for longer than 2 years.
I wouldn’t normally have a problem with it, but because of the cats – because of the hairballs, the poop, the piss, the problems; because of them making me feel like I don’t belong in my own home, I put my Prescott foot down.
My name is Julia Prescott, and you can claim my childhood room once you obtain opposable thumbs and pry it from my cold, dead human hands. ….That would actually be kind of amazing. Much more deserving of just living in a room in a human house, but you know – that’s a good start.
